The Big Blind
by Four Straight
Summary: 1959, the dawn of the Las Vegas Golden Years. The Umbrella is king of casinos, and Chris Redfield will stop at nothing to run it down. But how much will he sacrifice, and what will remain once the dust settles? AU.
1. Mack the Knife

**_Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear._**

**_And it shows 'em, pearly white._**

**_Just a jackknife has old Macheath, babe,_**

**_And he keeps it, keeps it outta sight._**

* * *

><p><em>May 1, 1959.<em>

_She listened to Old Blue Eyes sing._

_Her fingers worked the deck like an instrument._

_Shuffling. The faces hidden, flat on the felt._

_They talked around her - _

"_Fuckin' Kafauver. Ruined everythin'."_

"_Eh... they can't get in here. Too thick for the Feds. They'll drown."_

"_You hear about Accardo, though?"_

"_Yeah. Somethin' else."_

_She listened. The mumblings of the Mob._

_There was an Ace at the top; she'd seen it, they hadn't._

_The Outfit talked and talked. Nonsense. Gibberish._

_She began to deal, taking from under the favored card._

_It ended on him. She played into his hand - gave him the Ace._

_None of them noticed._

_Idiots._

"_So what the fuck is this, Al?"_

_She stood still, her heart pounding in her ears._

_Perhaps they'd seen her._

_Her boss raised an eyebrow._

"_A woman dealer? What the fuck kinda gimmick are you runnin' here?" One of them asked._

_They laughed._

_She was a joke to them._

_But it was good... she needed to be a joke._

"_I thought I'd shake the cage a little." Wesker said. "You'd prefer a man, would you Benny?"_

_They all laughed._

_Wesker won the hand._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Ya know when that shark bites, with his teeth, babe,<em>**

**_Scarlet billows start to spread._**

**_Fancy gloves, though, wears old MacHeath,_**

**_So there's never, never a trace of red._**

* * *

><p><em>The mobster set his cards down to talk with his hands.<em>

_Drunk. Drunker. Drunkest._

_Wesker was stone-cold sober._

_And so was she._

_She picked up the hand; into the deck it went._

"_Hey! Tony! She just mucked you!" _

_They all looked up then. Tony, eyes unfocused, glared. _

"_You mucked me, baby?"_

"_I... you laid them down, sir."_

"_I don't care. Those were my fuckin' cards!"_

_Wesker stared at her. _

_She couldn't get a read, but there was something behind it._

"_It's legal, Tone. You know that. You snooze, ya lose." His buddy was smiling._

"_Yeah! Stop runnin' your big trap and play. Maybe hold onto your cards, Pisan."_

"_I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know." She made herself entirely apologetic. She even bit her lip for effect._

"_She's new. Brand new." Wesker added, his eyes still on her._

"_Yeah... my ass. You're lucky you're a good-lookin' broad." Tony was surly, but sat back._

_They all stared at her cleavage and the little untied bow at her throat._

_The game went on._

_And Wesker won again._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Now, on the sidewalk, sunny mornin',<em>**

**_Lies a body just oozin' life._**

**_And someone's sneakin' 'round the corner._**

**_Could that someone be Mack the Knife?_**

* * *

><p><em>She played with the deck, shuffling, unshuffling. <em>

_The mobsters were gone._

_She was alone on the floor of the private room._

_The pianist downstairs ran over chords and pop tunes._

_He came back after a while._

_Sort of wandered over to her, sideways._

_She kept shuffling, pretending not to notice him._

_He watched her._

_He unnerved her._

_She ignored him._

"_You know that if you pull that shit with me, I will end you." So low it was almost a whisper._

_The cards thrummed to a stop in her hands. "Sir?" She did not look at him._

"_What you did tonight. The wool over their eyes: the second deal, the mucking on purpose. Clever, but foolish."_

"_I don't know what you're talking about, sir."_

_He laughed a little. "No. No, of course not. Just like I didn't know that they would be staring at your breasts all evening instead of playing poker."_

_She looked him in the eyes then, and an understanding was found._

"_I like you, Ms. Valentine. Truly. But I trust you about as far as I can throw you." He rapped on the green-topped table twice, sharp knuckle. "Whenever I get a handle on you, you just... slip away. A little fish."_

_She didn't reply._

"_Keep your tits out and you can keep cheating. You'll ruin them every time."_

_She nodded._

"_If you screw the house though... be prepared to take your punishment like a man."_

_He walked away, his hands in the pockets of his expensive pants._

* * *

><p><strong><em>There's a tugboat, down by the river, don'tcha know,<em>**

**_Where a cement bag's just a'droopin' on down._**

**_Oh, that cement is just there for the weight, dear..._**

**_Five'll get ya ten old Macky's back in town._**

* * *

><p><em>April 28, 1959.<em>

The morning was unseasonably cold for April.

A nasty chill that went to the bone in only the way the desert frost could.

She hugged the peacoat tightly around herself and looked down the sidewalk.

The Umbrella was about a half mile off, but it looked so near.

The Strip could make everything feel close.

She cursed Chris for making her hoof it.

She cursed Chris for asking her to do this.

She cursed Chris in general.

Jill put her head down and walked against cold Las Vegas wind.

* * *

><p>Sin City was a strange place.<p>

It seemed to Jill that it had an incurable split personality disorder.

By night, it was a carnival of lights - a buzz reaching for the fever pitch, but never summiting. It was bright and wild and fierce, like some circus beast. It breathed and it roared and it had a thumping heart, a blood, a pulse.

It was a place where _everyone_ felt alive.

By day though, it was haggard and dirty and tired.

This morning was no different.

The show tickets and pamphlets floated around her feet - like funerary programs of attractions past.

Cigarette butts and overflowing trash cans. Litter as far as the eye could see.

Tramps and transients on corners, waiting for breaks that would never come.

Nearby, metal piping banged and clanged against the skeletons of new casinos, new hotels, as they were assembled - bone by steel bone.

It was an ugly city by day, crushed between pristine and snowy mountains, built up and out on such barren, red earth.

But she could still feel it - the pulse.

She could always feel it.

She might not hail from this mirage, but Las Vegas was as much a home as any to her.

* * *

><p>At the turnstile doors Jill paused, looking up.<p>

The bulbs of the sign weren't lit, weren't buzzing with current. But it didn't matter.

The Umbrella was imposing enough without the dazzling lights.

_The Umbrella._

As she stared - employees hurrying in, a few straggling gamblers stumbling past - she inhaled deeply.

Dry, cold air rushing into her lungs.

_The Umbrella._

She and Chris were going to tear this godforsaken casino down.

They were going to crush their competition from the inside out.

And today was the day she would start.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Now, d'ja hear 'bout Louie Miller? He disappeared, babe<em>**

**_After drawin' out all his hard-earned cash_**

**_And now MacHeath spends just like a sailor_**

**_Could it be our boy's done somethin' rash?_**

* * *

><p>"James. James Marcus." He shook her hand, forceful and nervous. "You're the Valentine girl, right?"<p>

"Yeah." She was jostled by him.

"Well, let's hurry. He's waiting. You're late. And he hates waiting."

"Who? I mean... you're the manager, right?"

"Yes."

He started across the floor of the casino. She had to run to keep up with him.

"Aren't you going to interview me?"

"No. Mr. Wesker handles all of it. He's a bit of a micro-manager. And you're late." He repeated.

Jill glanced at her watch - a diamond-encrusted gift from Chris, all pomp and flash. She quickly ripped it off her wrist and shoved it in her little handbag. "I'm not late though... I'm 15 minutes early."

"Oh, you don't know Mr. Wesker. Half an hour early is on time for him."

* * *

><p>He was shockingly handsome.<p>

She hadn't expected that.

He didn't acknowledge her when she was led into his office.

He didn't acknowledge her after she was seated.

He didn't acknowledge her for a good five minutes.

Facing away in a tall-backed chair.

Looking out the windows of the penthouse office.

It was raining now and the droplets clung to the glass, making everything outside look mottled.

She could make out his face, his body, in the reflection.

Sharp lines - a long narrow nose, a frown on thin lips, square jaw. The face of a fox-man.

He had a poker chip in his left hand.

It flipped over his pale knuckles.

Index, middle, ring (naked), pinkie. And back.

Hypnotizing.

For a man who made everyone else rush, he certainly took his time.

He wheeled around to her - all stormy-eyed and stately.

Starting at her feet, he let his gaze trace the length of her legs, her hands folded in her lap, her chest, her shoulders, her posture, and finally her face.

He said nothing to her. He just stared.

Jill was hardly a wilting flower. She didn't blink.

(Her stomach flipped).

"You've worked in a casino before." He stated, rather than asked.

"Yes, sir. I was a maid at The Sahara. And then assistant head of housekeeping staff at The Flamingo."

"I don't want you cleaning rooms."

She shifted in the chair. "I can do other things, sir. Maybe serve?"

"No."

They were quiet.

"I need a job, sir," she said at last.

"Don't beg. It doesn't suit you."

She looked down.

"Have you dealt before, Ms. Valentine?"

"Well... No, I mean... there are no women dealing. That I know of. On the Strip." She stumbled on her words.

"I like being the first at things, Ms. Valentine. Will you deal or will you leave? Decide now."

"I can learn." She smiled, fake. She really should have said, _"I can school you."_

"I hope you're a quick study."

He continued to stare at her. The air was oppressive up there, in the penthouse.

She fidgeted. "When... when would you like me to start... sir?"

"Tomorrow, 9 am. And Ms. Valentine, maybe go blonde. High heels wouldn't hurt your case either. Try to wear something more revealing while you train. Very revealing, in fact. Breasts on display, a miniskirt, whatever it is you have to do before I put you in a uniform. This is a casino, not a nunnery."

She just nodded, shaken by his boldness.

She stood. "Alright. Well, thank you, Mr. Wesker. I'll be in tomorrow. At 8:30."

He seemed to smile at that, but stayed seated.

The poker chip resumed its dance over his knuckles.

He studied her, eyes narrowing, as if he was considering some museum exhibit, some experiment. A butterfly pinned to paper, perhaps - she couldn't be sure.

"I don't mean to offend, Ms. Valentine. But I have an image to uphold, and unfortunately I cater to the Playboy crowd. It's only business, you see..." He thought carefully. "You're a lovely girl."

"No offense taken, Mr. Wesker." She straightened the pencil skirt and picked up her pocket book, her coat. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He watched her leave.

She knew he watched her leaving.

She felt the rush of warm air as the doors closed, slammed behind her.

She fought the flush that crept over her entire being, her breath uneven and halting.

He was not at all what she had anticipated.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Now, Jenny Diver, yeah, Sookie Tawdry,<em>**

**_Oh Miss Lottie Lenya and old Lucy Brown._**

**_Oh, the line forms on the right, babe._**

**_Now that Macky's back in town._**

* * *

><p>Jill wandered.<p>

She wandered around the indoor carousel. (A lonely and sad thing during the day).

She wandered past the bar. (The tender nodded at her).

She wandered about what seemed like thousands of slot machines in the mirrored walls. (Machines that jingled and jangled, promised a jackpot on at least every fifth try).

She wandered through the Poker tables, the Roulette tables, the Blackjack tables, the Gin tables. (Listened and learned the language of his dealers, looked at their bright red and white get-ups - not pin striped but a starburst from their chest, the infamous logo of his casino).

"Watch it." Someone warned her. A deep voice.

They'd brushed shoulders.

He was a tall man.

Caramel, stick-straight hair, parted in the center.

She recognized him immediately.

Not from a previous encounter, not from anything concrete. No.

She knew him from glossy photographs, piles and piles of magazines.

Leon Kennedy.

_The Legendary Leon Kennedy._

Singer, entertainer, lady killer.

A Las Vegas icon.

He embodied it all - the indulgence, the obscenity, the spontaneity - a man made up of sex and drinking and gambling.

He had practically invented this town.

On his arm, a delicate-legged Asian seemed to perch - an exotic bird of paradise.

She too, a star of The Strip.

Miss Ada Wong, who dressed like a 1930's starlet no matter the occasion.

_Madame_ Ada Wong, who needed no introduction.

She ran the largest legal brothel just out of town - ran the hell out of it with an iron fist.

Madame Wong herself had bedded more powerful men than Monroe, Hepburn and Kelly combined.

Jill watched them saunter away, Wong's trilling laughter and Kennedy's wolfish grin.

"Alright... alright. Gotta get serious for the boss." Wong ran her hand over her face, making herself frown. Kennedy wheezed and she erupted in another fit of squawking giggles.

He pressed the _up_ button at the elevator doors, pulled her in for a movie star kiss.

And then they were gone.

* * *

><p>Jill hailed a cab.<p>

She slid into the backseat.

"Fremont, thanks."

It smelled of smoke and vomit and liquor.

She breathed through her mouth.

The ride would be short, after all.

* * *

><p>Through the great doors of The STAR.<p>

Straight to the stairs, ignoring staff.

She began to unbutton the top, untucking it from the skirt.

About halfway up, between the 5th and 6th floors, she stopped to pull the flats off. Rubbed her aching heels and kept going.

Finally, 9th floor - master suite.

* * *

><p>"Baby?" He called from the bedroom.<p>

She walked in, opened the floor-to-ceiling drapes.

The rainy morning light seeped into the boudoir, bleed all over the carpet, up onto the bed, over three sleepy forms.

"Good morning..." She purred.

Two nude women lounged on either side of Chris. Jill smiled at them and nodded to the door.

They were up and dressed without a word, leaving the lady of the house to her husband.

"You in?"

"You know it."

"Co'mere." He held his arms open.

She crawled across the bed, the expensive sheets, into his lap.

"He wants me to deal, Chris." She sighed, touching along the gold chain on his chest.

"_Deal?_ Really? Well... that's new." He smiled.

"One of those forward-thinkers, I guess."

"Can't say I blame him..."

"I dunno. I'm worried."

"Don't think like that." He whispered. "You'll be fine. He's not stupid enough to throw you to the wolves. You'll be responsible for making or breaking his house."

She nodded. "It's almost suspicious, isn't it? I haven't earned it."

Chris scratched his head. "It's different, that's for sure. A woman dealer. Hmmm..."

"I thought he'd put me on cleaning. This is a lot."

"It's good he's letting you so close. You'll be right in the middle of all of it."

Nodded again.

"And he doesn't know a thing about who you are, right?"

"No. Not a clue."

Chris smiled. "Better than we planned."

"Yeah."

"So... I've never met the guy. What's he like? What's the feel?"

She was thoughtful. "He's uh, he's..."

Chris looked down at her. "He's what?"

"He's the brains, for sure. Looks like he does most of it himself. Bunch of lackeys, but no sidekicks really."

"Uh-huh... What else?"

"It's a tight ship. Seems to run silky-smooth. Everything is timed."

"Okay."

"And... he's handsome."

"Oh is he?" He laughed.

"Yes. And you failed to tell me that. It threw me for a loop in there, Chris. I expected my grandfather."

More laughter, fading out. "I'm sorry, baby."

"Yeah, yeah..."

"So how handsome are we talking?"

She smiled then. "Very."

"Handsome as me?" A sly question.

"Oh yes," she said against his lips, kissing him.

He helped her push the button-down blouse the rest of the way off.

Over beautiful shoulders, down her back, onto the floor.

He kissed her in return. "Yeah? Tell me more..."

She kissed his ear as he licked and bit the side of her neck. "He's beautiful. And young. Not as young as you, but not old. He's just... right."

Chris grinned, eyes closed. "A perfectly-aged steak?"

He kissed the valley between her breasts, his hands slipping up to unsnap her bra.

She shivered. "The choicest cut..."

He threw her down to the bed and laughed, wrapping her legs around his waist. He smiled down at her. "He's got a lady, you naughty girl..."

"So do you..." She kissed him again, slow.

"You're going to break him down, hmm?" More tongue.

"You... have... no... idea..." She nibbled his lips.

He sat up, making a show of unzipping the skirt, tugging it down painfully slow.

He left the garters, the stockings on.

"You should wear white for him, Jilly... No one can resist you in white..."

She lay on her back, bit her fingers. "I think he'll like the black ones better." Husky. "Just a feeling."

"Oh? Well, those are good too." Wicked grin. "Why don't you show me how you're going to ruin him?"

"Gladly."

And then she was on top.

* * *

><p>An hour later, alone in bed - Chris down in the back room, running the show, while she slept and woke. Slept and woke.<p>

She couldn't shake Albert Wesker.

Grey morning eyes.

Tight, unmovable mouth.

What she wouldn't give to see a man like him fall.

Fall as in fail... or fall as in love... she wasn't sure yet.

Maybe both?

She felt like maybe she was on a cliff, about to do something dumb.

Her hand reached out from under the blanket, felt the night stand for something.

Something secure. Something safe.

Found it.

Slipped it back on.

A sliver band.

Her wedding ring.

But this was Las Vegas.

Nothing was safe.

* * *

><p><strong><em>I said Jenny Diver, Sookie Tawdry,<em>**

**_Look out to Miss Lottie Lenya and old Lucy Brown._**

**_Yes, that line forms on the right, babe._**

**_Now that Macky's back in town…_**


	2. The Honky Tonk Angel

_ABC- ADA... WAIT..._

_For those of you who didn't know, I'm illustrating this story. BLackhaunt on deviantart. Check it out.  
><em>

**It**_** wasn't God who made honky tonk angels  
>As you said in the words of your song<br>**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>-o-<br>**_

_April, 1959_

_Entertainment was and is the name of the game. _

It was that time between day and night, where the city bated its breath and waited to come alive again: Vegas died every morning, came back each night, a regular desert phoenix, nocturnal sun.

Jill came to work- and she was blonde, and she was exposed, but she was confident, so she smiled.

Brand new heels against freshly polished floors, added a tick to her step. She was ready to burn the place down - metaphorically speaking of course. The Umbrella was a lovely Mafioso crown; it could be gutted or repurposed as something more blasé.

This was Vegas, she was an actress- she could do it without arsonist intent.

She wouldn't fail in her role.

She sighed and twisted the ring off her finger.

_**-o-**_

The sun was shining still, mid-day, slivers of light peeping through the Venetian blinds.

She slipped from the bed sheets, now stained, saturated with sweat and sex and _ignorance_. They said ignorance was bliss- but perhaps for him, it was euphoria.

_It was sheer perfume-scented ecstasy. Like love. Artificial love._

"Ada, _baby_."

Her name was slurred in a drunken stupor- absolutely pathetic - but she indulged him. She always indulged them.

Her calloused feet slid over carpet. Noiselessly, she pulled her dress back over her legs, set the straps, picked at them.

"Sleep it off, handsome."

He groaned, collapsed before he started, into a fog of her, a dream. "Ada, _wait_."

She stopped beside the threshold and turned, one marginal inch, listening, _waiting_, but he was quiet again; slumbered off, probably drooling into his pillow once more.

She sighed. "No." Thought about it. "Still no."

Her heels were muffled on the way out.

_**-o-**_

She had her fingers crossed over expensive glass, permanent smirk on the rim, leaving red stains.

Jill's hands were full of a deck, shuffling, practicing.

This woman was watching her hands, she felt it.

There was arrogance at first glance with all the reason to back it up: She was the protégé of darling Vegas, the poster child of sensuality. Absolutely impossible to miss on purpose - like she stepped from the expensive decorum and printed headlines.

Jill could only stare when _the_ _Madame_ sat down across from her, the most extravagant visual impediment.

"Why, _hello_ there." She positively purred.

Years of scandal propaganda was staring her in the face… very lazily. Almost like she was bored- but that was good; bored was uninterested.

_Nothing special about me, just another broad on the payroll, fumbling with the cards._

A performer on the raised stage was testing notes on a sax, sampling the waters. White suit, black cap, fast fingers, _The Umbrella_ white and red pinned to the collar- _how suave- criminality made fashionable._

Ada Wong spoke in synchrony jazz tunes, saying plenty without words.

_Saying 'She's a sinner.' _

They all were in their own special way, but God be damned if all the rumors didn't seem at least half true.

Something about her…

"You're, Ms. Wong, right?"

It certainly didn't need to be asked, her persona was all too recognizable. Tall, long-legged, shock black hair cut strict in the back, long over her face. Everything Jill heard was completely factual, down to the cinnamon-colored shawl draped over her shoulders.

"My reputation," She murmured, a breath heavy, perhaps too much out of habit.

Jill nodded, focused on the cards, elsewhere, casual.

Her thumbnails got caught on the edges: the shuffling was messy, the cardstock was bent. It was just a practice deck though.

"Oh, May I?"

Luxurious purr- she was pulling out the theatrics.

Jill repaired the deck, slid it over without too many cards flying all over the place.

It snapped into her _the Madame's_ hand like her palm was magnetic- practiced.

She tapped long nails against the gloss backs, stroking the deck lovingly, all the affection of a predator.

"_Do you play_?" she cooed, leaned forward as if it was some clandestine information.

"Poker?"

"_I'm sure_." She sighed, leaned back.

It wasn't the answer she was fishing for.

"Blackjack, sweetheart. _Blackjack_."

Her hands worked the cards, shuffled them like she peddled flesh- fast, precise and with purpose. She cut the deck twice, ran her thumbs over the edges; the cards were hissing.

Jill wondered if her patrons sounded that pleased under her fingers.

"Yeah, I play. Of course."

All business with the flick of her wrists, completely spellbinding; her hands were more permanent than ink and they were smearing perfume saturated fingerprints all over a deck of cards.

Ada leaned upon her palm, set the deck before her, watched her. Her eyes seemed weighed down with red shadow- heavy, permanently sultry. "Fantastic."

It should have been no surprise, the Madame was being _flirtatious_.

Jill felt the knot in her throat, there, right between her neck and chin, sticky sweet.

The smell of her – what was that scent? Something heavy floated about her like an aura.

Ada dealt the hand, one card down, one card up, two for each.

"So what brings you to The Umbrella, Miss Valentine?" such a sultry tone.

It was laughable, so she chuckled; she tried to give it her best purr. No surprise she knew her name.

_If only you knew everything, Madame Wong, you wouldn't believe me._

"Work. The golden era, the 'good' life - that's what they call it?" Jill smiled, wondered if it looked as fake as it felt.

"-work in Sin City?"

She flipped her card, a seven, and a five, tapped the table with her freshly done nails. "Hit me."

"Oh?" Ada flicked another card her way, smile on her face, plush lips. "How cute of you, darling."

Jill flipped it, pushed her cards forward. A six, an eighteen total.

"Stand."

Ada flipped her face down. One six, one five. She dealt another, a three.

Another.

"Ohh, drat." She smirked and collected the bust hand. "Seems like you win, Miss Valentine. That kind of luck is perfect for Vegas."

"I guess I'm just regular Lady Luck." She snickered, teased.

_Gloated. _Dared the _Madame _to guess what kind of mischief was amiss for the sole reason that nobody would believe it.

Jill wanted to smirk at this woman, tell her the escapades were up, and cash her chips in now because they were all going to Hell.

Ada leaned back, crossed the long legs she was rather known for, one knee over the other. "Oh, _definitely_."

"Another round?" A quip that hid in secret arrogance.

The woman, eloquent to the end, nodded, dealt, lost.

_She didn't lose her poster-worthy smile._

"My, my, Valentine—" She sighed, so smoothly. "I just can't beat you."

This time Jill could only frown at the tone: It just dripped with innuendo… or was that patronizing?

"…Yeah, funny that," she paused, held up a finger to still the thought, "but we've only played two games, Madame Wong."

"Ada."

"I'm sorry?"

"Darling, wouldn't it be polite to call me simply 'Ada'? After all, I can tell we're going to be quite close _friends_."

"Right." She muttered, skeptically, "Ada, then…"

The gentle swaying of the sax was unnerving in the background, music to fill the awkward gap. Ada collected the deck, shuffled, slower, hummed along.

"So - we've played two games." Soothing, floating words. "Best one out of three, then? A high stakes little game."

Jill leaned on her elbows, the round tabletop squeaked. "Seems hardly fair to me, _Ada_."

She tested the name, it was awkward, but it wasn't harsh, almost like a misplaced note- no, a clashing note. In the right context, it could sound perfect- but still, so odd.

"Mmm?" she purred, she dealt two cards, on face up, one hidden, to both of them.

Jill looked before she flipped the second card. A jack, a three.

_They smelled like perfume, thirteen. Lucky numbers, devil's numbers._

"Hit me." She muttered.

Ada bit her lip, smiled around the indent, and tossed the seven of spades towards her. Twenty!

"Stand." She grinned. "Hey, maybe luck's got her eye on me after all."

Indecent smirk, a sip of drink, the woman's eyes never left her, not once. "_She does_."

Those long fingers dashed over the jack of hearts, to her own card, flipped it.

Ace of spades, wicked, spider webbing designs in a halo around the sharp symbol.

"Blackjack," she crooned as she perched her chin on her hands, batting her eyelashes.

"Wha?"

Jill swallowed, looked the table over, shook her head, disbelieving. She had to have cheated!

"No way- how…" She started, but too slow. The cards were collected, shuffled, spilled between hands with effortless waves. The cardboard positively buzzed as she stacked them, ran her thumbs up their spines and filtered them into the mix.

The saxophone droned into a relative silence, performer speaking with someone, perhaps about the marvelous acoustics in the dipping roof.

"Sheer luck, Miss Valentine."

For _some_ reason she doubted that.

More buzzing to fill an uncomfortable silence. "I guess so. Suppose there's no way you could have slighted it either- the dress isn't for that kind of thing."

And that was the first time she beheld _the smirk. _

It wasn't gentle; it was lecherous, dark, and amorous. Her lips were perfect for that expression: it fit her.

"_You'd be surprised what a dress could do, Jill._"

It wasn't just advice, at least, not with that look on her face. Not while she was continuously shuffling cards like she had something to bury in the suits.

There was a hole where her confidence retreated into; Jill shrank back in spirit, frowned.

"_Valentine_." Ada hummed, stroking the syllables, heavy sounds border lining pornographic.

Jill wasn't an idiot. "I'm flattered, Miss Wong- but really, do you take me for a-"

Ada extended a polished finger to the air, cutting the sentence. "Do you think I'm _scheming_ on you, _Valentine_?"

"Yes, I really think you are." She crossed her arms indignantly.

"And _you?"_

She was taking a poll. Jill turned to see the other voters, slightly flushed at the fact that there _were _other voters bearing witness.

Her nose brushed the pocket button of _The Umbrella's_ finest and she jumped to attention, leaning on her palms to collect herself.

"Mr. Wesker-" she started, never finished.

Ada snagged the neck of her drink and smiled, neutral once again, draught of light liquor with a salty rim on her lips, waving, nonchalant.

"Hello , _handsome_."

Mr. Wesker was the furthest from impressed yet- every bit as imposing as he was _annoyed. _

Outfit freshly pressed, sleek, suave. Decked in black without one flaw in the fabrics.

"I apologize for her _rude_ behavior." He shot it, simmering words.

Jill watched them, listened like the good little spy she was. Her fingers balled fabric behind her back that was too clean, too neat- that damn skirt…

_He was watching her, scrutinizing- why was she nervous?_

_Unmoving expression, stony, steel eyes. She could shake it, she could shake him._

_She would shake him._

Ada feigned a gasp, covered her mouth, covered her smile. "What words, Alb-"

"Ada." A gesture of his head, a silent _follow me_. "_Now_."

She licked a grain of salt from the rim of her glass, rubbing it along her upper lip. "Pushy, pushy- just can't wait for anything, can you?"

He outright glared, but she waited. She stretched tension on purpose, waited to stand and sighed _again_.

"Well." She murmured, heels returning with a clack to the floor. "It seems like this impasse lost its flavor. _Adieu_, sweetheart."

Jill blinked at the lord of the house, the king- the ace, but he did nothing when Ada's fingers walked the bone of her shoulder, teasing, twisting around each other, a pass by.

"_See you around."_

Jill stepped away, _annoyed_, watched them leave, him speaking to her, monotone, stern, was it?

Such a perfect set of sinners, right there, framed by a menagerie of slanted ceilings adorned with chandeliers, walls with countless landscapes, picturesque.

One was smirking in his shadow, smiling, speaking smooth, she could picture it.

Pristine jazz notes.

"Hey…" she started, no finish. She looked at her hands, no cards, the table, no cards, just a lipstick stained glass, melted salt on the rim.

_Good friends indeed. _

"Dammit." A huff and a swear, and she was back in the chair again, leaning forward, glaring at nothing, the empty space.

The Las Vegas quiet before the storm, an argument in the corner and a buzz of commotion too muted to care about were her company.

_**-o-**_

They stepped into old shoes, old footfalls with each length away.

"Remember what happened to Johnny? The last one you got too frisky with?" Nonchalant.

"Ohhh- Johnny?" She shrugged it off, the shawl slipped over her arm and she thumbed through the deck in her hands, made the cardboard buzz.

"Johnny the fink? Johnny the rat?" she sighed, smiling, remembering. "Hardly an example."

"You should go sleep the drink off before that mouth gets you into trouble." He reiterated.

She chuckled, shuffled continuously, slowly, attune with the clippings of her feet. "Clearly you don't want me around tonight."

"I am asking you politely this time. Get out." He crooned, into her ear.

_Just like old times, but she didn't shiver._

_She hardly shivered. No surprise in being replaced for that reason._

"Hmmm." She hummed, didn't stop shuffling, aces, spades, clubs, diamonds. Luck. "Well, you've been a valuable wealth of information and I'm glad we had this little chat."

She swung the words, knew him for far too long. Too friendly, too familiar.

Still would put a bullet between her eyes on an off day.

He frowned, glared a headache and a half later.

She brushed back bangs, dark, with a theatrical sigh, dramatized. "Do tell your pet- what was it-"

Snap of the fingers as she slithered through to the other side.

"Good_night_, Ada."

"Goodnight Albert. See you around."

_**-o-**_

The city was her favorite mirage at night, and she was it's mistress as she was it's _Madame_, even exiled from the king's castle for the night.

At least her carriage was more than compensation for the sudden banishment, and the night was young.

She could slip on her dark winkle pickers, the ones with the little black bows, and make love to the treacherous city whose name she loved to sigh.

_Las Vegas- 'the medows.'._

Ada stared as the Strip passed them by, felt the taste of smoke cling to her dress and the palpable energy suck her in.

The driver bit the tail of his cig as he turned the corner for her next stop, part of what she called "the main bit."

It was the time when she had the most fun.

"Merci, Merci." she hummed as he pulled over, for extra measure adding one extra swack of hers to the town with lips to his neck.

Luis pushed her away with a groan. "Save the charm for _them_, _si_?"

She smirked at him from the backseat, "_Au revoir_." And kicked her heels onto the pavement.

Winds whipped at her ankles and her dress sputtered in waves against her legs.

"Isn't it a little cold?" he called back, through the cracked open window.

_**-o-**_

_Le Papillon _

_Printed in fine thin letters above the entrance, bright red, illuminated underneath._

It was cradling the edge of Tropicana and Audrie with purpose, a literal crossroads, and she was the gatekeeper.

She kept at the entrance, hovered as a greeter, accepting each guest with practiced lines, skin doused with rouge.

"_You want me to make your dreams come true?" she would say, promising fantasies. _

_She would hiss 'I'll give you heaven, for a price', and they would shudder in their boots and their pockets._

_And she would laugh when they were hers- but never when she was at the door, smiling and welcoming._

_They would brag, boast, or the shy ones would nod numbly, but no one said "no" this far into the doorway. They made deals with the Devil willingly._

"Ma'am."

She turned from the threshold and the weather beyond, the coldest April shower in years, closing the door behind her.

Her girls were shivering and chilled- dresses stiff and knuckles blanched. She wasn't smiling at the crossroads, but frowning as her breath chilled on the air.

"It's no good, not tonight. Get them inside, Rebecca."

The smallest girl she'd ever taken in, skinny, quiet, one of many and a bit too young, but in too deep- a typical case, but unlike most, she was pretty.

Huge green eyes with a bit of bite to her, but mostly quiet. "Yes, ma'am." She pulled her skinny little fingers through the fabric of her dress.

Ada let her finger run over the little pink ribbon on her neck, affection boundless. She was a woman in love.

_With the game, the night, the beauty of power._

Rebecca shivered at the kiss she planted to her neck.

"Good girl."

_**-o-**_

Candles flickered about lazily, isolated from the world while projections of shadows, of her hands and legs were staining the walls.

The corner tub, innovation in its color, deep red as par her request, it was her sanctuary.

It was soundless and dark, and she felt warm, calm, while the water thickened with the soap. She let her head rest on the edge and behind her eyes she dreamed, very awake.

_She was very aware. _

Of everything, of anything, of things that _no one knew she knew_, and she took a little too much pleasure into knowing.

A woman draped over wine-colored porcelain, limp underwater, nail polish chipping off, floating, Ada could all but feel the spoils of her own days.

_She was shedding her skin, the powder off her face, pastel precious values- wax stained lips melting away, and ruminating in the broth._

Silence, delicate and lonely silence, preferred silence; she smiled and drank it in, her own breathing hot in her ears, a prescription dosage of calm.

She wanted to indulge herself in the moment mindlessly- because today was almost perfect. Almost.

He didn't typically bother her when she was in her designated "room", much less intrude on her bath, but today was apparently a special occasion, and the door was unceremoniously opened, closed more delicately.

She flinched at the creaking of the hinge and turned her head.

"Well…" she said, pawing at the ripples and suds, modesty hardly in her framework. "This is a treat."

"Evening, Miss Wong." He was smiling behind the words, itching and restless under her eyes.

And as much of a shock as it was to have him burst in, unintivted _this _time, she failed to be _surprised_.

She leaned over the edge, arms sliding over, and could practically feel the charged air.

Odd places, odd times, regardless of where or when she was, he was _strangely _capable of finding her, furthermore finding her wound up.

"Suppose I should apologize..." He slid a hand through his hair, and she chuckled, trilled out notes at how terribly unconvincing he was.

_The smirk_ was on her lips. "Can't read, can you? We're closed for the night."

"Psh, right." he muttered, slinging off his coat. One of her thin brows crept below her sticky bangs, but he continued. "You were expecting me. Rebecca just let me in."

She pushed herself to the other end of the tub. "You're getting too comfortable around here."

'_And way too good at finding me.'_

"Well.. I guess I could spare a few odd hours..." she mused as he slid behind her shoulders. "We _are _closed."

She felt him grin behind her. One kiss to her neck, one to her shoulder: soft sounds, but starving motions.

"My lucky day." he said, and she laughed, shaking her head for him.

And turned to kiss him, halfway to Hell and getting closer each second.

_Saying 'She's a sinner.'_

_**Too many times married men think they're still single  
>That has caused many a good girl to go wrong<strong>_

_**-Kitty Wells**_


	3. Get Behind The Mule, Part One

**Choppity chop, goes the axe in the woods.**

**You got to meet me by the fall-down tree.**

**Shovel of dirt upon the coffin-lid.**

**And I know they'll come looking for me, boy.**

**I know they'll come a-looking for me.**

* * *

><p>He was awake five minutes before the alarm clock. Las Vegas shone through a crack in the blinds. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he was still wearing his bowtie. Two quick sniffs and unfamiliar perfume flooded his nostrils. Something warm and soft pressed against his thigh.<p>

The silk sheets whispered a good-morning as he propped himself up.

That sash of sunrise cut a golden line from the crescent-shaped birthmark above her hip-bone to her burnished tuft of pubic hair. Her chest rose and fell evenly. Her mouth was open, her legs still spread.

He sat and blinked until a name could be attached.

Angela: the Keno girl from downstairs, grew up in South Dakota. She was amiable and easy on the eyes, but she didn't know anything about anything.

His feet tangled around her uniform as he tiptoed toward the washroom. Shame that they wouldn't have a second date.

* * *

><p>He straightened a lapel as the elevator hurried him earthward. The overbright sun flashed and flared through the glass in even rhythm. Ten beats per minute, he had his squints timed perfectly. Eyes closed, yellow flash, eyes open, grey cinderblock. The steadfast pattern was the only thing that could be counted on with absolute certainty in this building, and he greeted the two minute ride—or four minute, depending on the number of passengers—as his sacrament to Las Vegas existence.<p>

The double-doors would ping open in fifteen seconds, and so he offered himself a last check in the mirror. He had an image to uphold, after all. Even off-duty, Wesker would expect him to look the part and play his piece. Belt buckle centered, collars covering Angela's scratch marks, he was a fine example of the gentlemanly facade of Wesker's big black tower, and so when the doors whispered into the walls, Leon Kennedy stepped into the austere lobby with a proud back and a confident grin.

Black granite clicked under his wingtips. The Umbrella was an anomaly on The Strip, eschewing both the western motif of the older gambling halls and the false Floridian sheen of the newer joints. No, The Umbrella was something else: sleek and spare and ruthless, much like the man who captained her. The glass doors flooded the entrance with honey-yellow. It was a tiny island of warmth in the grey and black room: a warm intruder tolerated nowhere else then in the periphery.

"Good morning, Mister Kennedy."

Leon took an inward cringe at his greeter's fey lilt before affixing The Winning Smile and turning.

"Mister Ashford. How shines it?"

Ashford started. His eyes crested to the doors, narrowed to Leon, and then back to the foreign sunlight. The man was the paradigm of good English breeding to guests and superiors, and he was a sullen tyrant to his underlings. Leon was stuck in managerial Limbo between staff and guests, and poor Ashford never quite knew how to act.

"It shines well, I suppose." He offered himself an affirmative nod. His cornflower eyes interchanged between contempt and accommodation. "I must warn you, it's quite cold outside. It's a rather early start for you."

Leon caught a whiff of suspicion in Ashford's words. Wesker chose his management staff carefully. Even this pigeon-chested limey would be a valuable set of eyes to that Sphinx.

"Tell me about it. I left the bathroom window open last night." Never make excuses. Dismissal was the way to go. "You'd have sworn there were icicles from the shower head when I woke up."

Ashford stiffened.

"Don't worry. No frozen pipes." He offered The Winning Smile. "Nice hot shower warmed everything up."

"Would you care for us to freshen your room while you're away?" asked with humble eyes and the ghost of a scowl on his lips. "Is your room currently, ah, unoccupied?"

Leon glanced to the chandelier and thought of Angela. "I have a guest at the moment."

Ashford's cheeks matched his beefsteak-red blazer.

"You can send her up the Regent Breakfast in half an hour, and have room service go through at eleven. Give her a pair of tickets for the Saturday show as well."

Ashford forced his upper lip straight. "Of course, Mister Kennedy. Shall I have Carlos bring your vehicle?" He was gauging Leon's reaction, plotting.

Well, it could have been worse. Ashford was a dunce. Marcus was the one to watch for, but the old man only showed up at nine. "No need, Alfred. Have a good day."

"You as well…_sir_."

He turned from the little queer and made a deliberately slow amble to the exit, threw a wink at an older gal with an incredible beehive and held the door for her.

Alfred was puffy and officious, but he could be counted on for an accurate weather report. For a city of sin, Las Vegas could be mighty cold.

* * *

><p>Leon shifted away from the cab's window and its associated draft. These Nevada winters were a special kind of awful: thin and severe, like a flick-knife between the ribs. A sprinkling of tiny gray snowflakes churned along with the litter as if they were ashamed of themselves. It was nothing like the massive snowsqualls back home: flakes the size of silver dollars that fell straight in luxurious blankets, indulgently sticky stuff that hung to eaves and sagged trucksprings.<p>

The wind whistled through the Studebaker. Leon shifted farther over, managing even distance between the draft, and a smear of what was either phlegm or cum midway down the bench seat.

"Hey, I thought I recognised you." The hack had an Oklahoma drawl and a sharecropper's brown skin. This was no surprise. No one was native to Las Vegas. The city was the last of the Hoovervilles. Itinerants from all corners wheeled into the place, chasing their fortunes of folly. "You're that singer at the Flamingo. Kennedy, right?"

"No, I just look like him."

"My hat you just _look like him_. You're Kennedy, alright." Tom Joad laughed. His Okie teeth flashed yellow as his cab. "Don't fret. I ain't a fan."

"Well, I guess you won't be getting a tip then."

Tom Joad chuckled. "That's fine. Just don't make a mess back there and I'm happy as a lark."

He frowned at the gob. It was probably just phlegm. "You don't have to worry about me."

"All righty." He disappeared behind his seat and came back with a plug of tobacco pinched between his chompers. "Anyhow, my sister in-law wouldn't stop talking about you when she came to visit. Drove me nuts."

"You didn't come to the show?"

"No offense, but your stuff ain't exactly my type. I'd rather catch that three-piece at the Golden Nugget."

"I'm not surprised." He shivered and flipped the lapels on his jacket. "Hey, forget what I said. I'll give you two bucks if you turn the heat up."

Tom smiled and hawked into a paper cup. "Much as I'd like your money, there's no heater core in this girl. But that jacket ought to hold you through nicely. What squadron were you with?"

Leon raised his eyebrows. "Squadron?"

"Oh, sorry. I see a bomber jacket and right then assume the boy wearin' it was Air Force."

"No, never served. I was a cop for about a month."

"A month? Decided bein' some Nancy Boy singer was better?"

"Something like that." He smiled. "You served?"

Tom Joad nodded. "Was a gunner on a B-29 with the Double-X. Trained outta Nellis. Came back to Nevada after getting deactivated."

Leon shifted forward. Perhaps the engine would throw some radiant heat. "You're from Oklahoma, I'm guessing."

"You'd guess right."

"Why not go back home?"

Tom Joad laughed and spat into his cup. "You ever been to Oklahoma?"

"Good point."

He settled into the seat and pressed his arm against the draft. They passed a peppermint-green highway marker. 'Welcome to Henderson: Born in America's Defence.' Smoke billowed from the magnesium plant and glowed pink in the sun.

"So, you never said where you wanted me to let you off."

"The Union Pacific station is fine, Tom."

The hack narrowed his eyes in the rearview. "How'd you know my name was Tom?"

"I'm a _really_ good guesser."

* * *

><p>He kept his hands crammed against the bottom of his pockets. Loose pennies danced in the bowl between his fingers and palms. The sun was beginning to bake away the frost, and his shoes were lost in the fog. He was in a full shiver once he rounded onto Second Street West, lapels flipped and chin tucked, teeth chattering like a roulette ball.<p>

Ah, the great gamble of life, roll high and you parch in the sun; roll low and you freeze solid. It only made sense then that America's heart of high-stakes living had such wild extremes in weather. No one was meant to survive here. Once your winning streak ended on The Strip, the desert would finish you for good.

But not today, he still had a few pennies left, and warmth waited a half-block up, tucked behind a Mayberryesque picket fence. Middle-America drew its idyllic breath out here as well. Complete with mowed grass, trees and freckled redheads on Schwinns: tiny atolls of sensibility bivouacked among the wretches and thieves.

He swung the gate, took wide steps up the paving-stones and clomped down the patio. Hunnigan had the door open before he could knock.

"Morning," He chattered and stamped his feet.

"You're earl-" Her eyes went wide behind the cat's-eye glasses. "Oh my goodness, your _lips_ are blue."

"It's cold today."

"Come in, for goodness sakes." She stepped aside and gave the door a good slam. "Where did you walk from?"

"Union Station, but my cab didn't have heat." He weaved his way through Hunnigan's incongruously cluttered living room, toward the Formica table in the kitchen: the table where the secrets and false faces were laid aside.

"You should have had him drop you off closer."

"Can't be too safe." He slid a ream of newspapers off a chair and cleared enough space on the table to rest his elbows.

"I suppose. Here, this will help you warm up." She handed him a steaming cup, black and aromatic ambrosia inside.

He took a sniff. "I thought Joseph Smith frowned on this stuff?"

She regarded him over her cup. Her penciled eyebrows rose. "And _I_ thought the Vatican frowned on fornication." She took a dainty sip. "It's been three months, how have things been?"

"Ninety-six days." He wiped a lipstick mark off the rim and took a healthy gulp. "Been keeping myself busy, eyes open and all that. Councilman Boyette lost two-thousand dollars at the Craps table last weekend."

"Anything on the Palentino angle?"

He reached into his jacket and held out a well-rumpled manila envelope. "How's this?"

Her long fingers flashed like tanned lightning. She quickly had a dozen autographed Leon S. Kennedy headshots smiling at her from the tabletop.

Her forehead creased. "Is this a joke?"

"No joke." He drained his cup with a single gulp. "Flip them over. One has a surprise."

Hunnigan complied. She paused midway through, and cracked a porcelain grin. The photo shook in her hand, and a blush crawled down her face, racing to her librarian's collar.

Still she smiled. There was a tiny fold between her upper lip and nose, as if the skin was unused to being bent in that position. "Is that?..."

"Alfie Palentino and Ironsides Davis."

"Oh, wow!"

He chuckled. "So much for Senator Davis' tough stance on organised crime, huh?"

"Oh, wow." She shook her head, adjusted her glasses and bent closer to the photo. "Who's the blond beside Senator Davis?"

"That's The Umbrella's owner."

She held the photo three inches from her face. "Wesker."

"Yeah, that's him."

"Does he always wear sunglasses indoors?"

"Only when he has to lie."

She seemed unwilling to let go of the picture. "How did you take this?"

"I was Missus Palentino's escort for the evening. She wanted a picture of herself and one of Wesker's statues, Hermes I think." He laughed. "I'm a terrible photographer. Didn't even get her in the shot."

Hunnigan cracked her boomerang-shaped grin again. "Well done, Agent Kennedy."

He matched her smile and upped her a chuckle. Agent Kennedy had a musical sound to it.

"It's all in a day's work."

And with cardsharp speed, Hunnigan's smile was gone, replaced with her owlish cunning. "Wesker is looking at the camera. He's looking at you."

"He doesn't suspect anything."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I'm still alive. This was taken a month ago."

Hunnigan seemed to be weighing this. She wasn't officially FBI —J. Fucking Edward would never let a skirt into his club— but she had a razor hone all the same. "I still don't like it, Leon. It was too risky."

"It was easy."

She sipped her coffee. "Even so, we're going to shift focus for a while. What do you know about The Star?"

He shrugged. "That's the old El Dorado, right? Way down on the far end of Freemont? They're building a new tower."

"That's the place. The owner's name is Chris Redfield."

"Redfield… never heard of him."

"No one has." She rose, smoothed the single crease from her skirt and turned to rummage through a dented cookie-tin. Papers were unceremoniously dumped to the floor, until a weathered newspaper clipping was pushed toward him. A blurry head was circled in red ballpoint.

"That's him. All we know is that he grew up in Gary Indiana. He was stationed in Italy in forty-four and stayed overseas after his discharge. He's only been in-country for two years, and he's got very deep pockets."

He took a good look at the newsprint. Redfield had too much muscle and carried himself like a prize fighter. A man like that grew up fighting, and a man like that grew up poor.

Hunnigan got to her tiptoes —giving her chaste, but quite lovely, body an opportunity for appraisal— reached above her cabinets and came down with another handful of paper. "Ah, here it is. We managed to get a copy of his military service records."

He took the dossier and flipped it open. Nineteen year-old Christopher Alan Redfield, Flight Officer with the Ninety-Fourth Pursuit Squadron, glared at him from the official photograph. Redfield had a scrape on his chin, and one eye was slightly swollen. The thug's expression didn't match the boyish roundness of the face to which it was married, and the boyish face didn't match the officer's forage cap cocked above it. Everything about the man looked stitched together, as if he was assembled from whatever parts were unclaimed.

"…Flew thirty-seven escort sorties with C-Flight… no confirmed kills." He glanced at Hunnigan. "So at least we don't have to worry about him shooting anyone." He leafed through the decidedly lacklustre specifics of Redfield's combat record. "Oh hey, that's fun. He spent six months in the stockade for assaulting a superior officer. They took away his commission. Hello, dishonourable discharge."

"We've decided that Mister Redfield isn't the type who can afford a casino on his own," Hunnigan said.

"So, you want me to sniff around a bit, find out who's bankrolling him."

"We can't think of anyone better suited for the job."

"Well thanks." He handed her back the clipping. "Anything else I should know?"

Hunnigan straightened in her chair. "He has a sister."

Leon raised an eyebrow.

* * *

><p>The ride home proved much more comfortable. The cab was newer, cleaner and had heat. The hack —a jumpy little Mexican with jumpy little eyes— took no interest in him, and there was good music on the radio.<p>

And yet he was anything but comfortable. He felt like ten year-old Leon Scott, fidgeting in catechism while the fleeting Chicago summer bloomed outside. He knew he should take the cab back to The Umbrella. He should put on his fresh suit and pound a few Rusty Nails with the afternoon fossils at the lounge. He should eat a T-Bone, have Carlos fetch the Jaguar and do a reconnaissance of Chris Redfield's fine establishment. He definitely should introduce himself to a certain Claire Marie Redfield.

He knew these things, just as he knew that The Lord was in heaven, tallying every transgression, itemising every vice. And in typical Leon Kennedy form, he would ignore these axioms and resign himself to his base urge.

That ivory-skinned masturbation. Every word a lie. Every bone, sinew, and fibre was borne of deceit.

The cab passed a street vendor selling frostbitten flowers in cellophane placentas. Front and center among the sagging roses and chrysanthemums was a newer batch of Asiatic Lilies.

And he knew just where his Asiatic Lily was waiting. Le Papillion lingered on the other side of city limits, just outside of Paradise, peddling her supple narcotic.

"Hey, Champ." Leon tapped the hack's shoulder.

The hack's eyes pinballed to the rearview.

"Change of plans. Drop me off at the corner of Tropicana and Audrie.

The hack threw him a knowing smile before turning the cab southbound.


	4. My Heart Belongs to Daddy

_But when I do, I don't follow through_

* * *

><p><em>April 30, 1959<em>

She cracked the window before she lit her cigarette.

Noise slipped in alongside the cold morning air. Claire could hear the rustle of leaves– _not leaves, _she reminded herself. Probably trash. There were no real trees on the Strip. It was a human wasteland, pure pavement and neon, and it was only any good after the sun went down.

Claire brought the cigarette to her lips and relished the warmth.

Rain was definitely coming.

She could feel it, smell it.

She took another drag and ignored the goosebumps prickling her skin. She pulled her bathrobe closer and sat there, sucking her cigarette and staring out the window.

It was bad for April.

She'd been hoping for warmer, but Claire Redfield no longer cared if she got what she wanted.

* * *

><p><em>May 3, 1959<em>

"Hey. Wake up, sleepyhead."

Chris stirred under the covers. His eyes flickered open. She watched his eyelashes, so full and dark, as they fluttered. _Fluttered. _She would have to tell him that one day. Wouldn't Chris Redfield love to know that his lashes fucking _fluttered. _

"Claire?"

She leaned down so that her breath was on his face, nothing more than a whisper. "Is she leaving, or are you snuggling?"

Chris looked to the woman at his side. He gave her a nudge with his foot, and the body stirred. She peeked up at Claire from brown eyes rimmed in heavy, smudged mascara.

"I'll see you," Chris said. The girl nodded and blinked some more, then stood up, exposing her body like it was nothing. Claire couldn't help staring at the soft curve of her breasts. A perfect hourglass. Ready to be turned over for another overpriced night.

"Claire." Chris sounded happy to see her. "What's going on?"

Claire glanced over at the door as it clicked shut.

"You know she's not a real blonde."

"What?"

"She dyes her hair."

"You think I'm stupid?" Chris sat up and raked a hand through his hair. "Of course she's not. But that's not the point. What're you doing here?"

Claire sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets were nice stuff- silk. Nothing but the best for Chris and his wife. Or Chris and his prostitutes. Whichever it happened to be at any given moment.

"I'm back in town," she said. "Surprise. Or not. Shouldn't you have realized I checked in at the Star?"

_You're getting lazy. _

But really: _Why didn't you come see me?_

She had that tone in her voice again, that tone that reminded him not to piss of the bigger boys, the one that spoke of things he knew well enough to forget.

"Of course I did, Claire. I just figured you'd visit when you wanted to see my handsome face." He gave her that winning smile again. _Winning. _That was what Chris did best, and she smiled back at him despite herself. "How was the wider world?"

She shrugged. "Okay." There was no reason to tell him how much she'd spent on the East Coast.

She'd grown into a quick spender, and the realization bothered her.

"I saw a musical on Broadway. The Music Man. You ever hear of it?"

"No."

"It reminded me of our hometown."

"Did it make you nostalgic, little sis?" He was playing with her now.

"It was shit."

His hand went to the small of her back. "Not too surprising." He pulled her close. "You're tense. What is it?"

"Jill just dyed her hair. I thought you would have had your fill of them."

"Blondes? Jill? It's different. God, Claire. You know that."

Claire stood up and shrugged. "Right. You're right." She looked out the window. Chris knew how she feels about his wife. She was glad she found him with the prostitute. She didn't think she could deal with Jill just then.

She felt a twinge of guilt, but only a twinge. _What she did last night - _

Chris was quiet for a moment. Then:

"How do you know Jill's blonde?"

"I saw her on my way to a job the other day. The Sahara."

Chris raked his free hand through his hair, scratching his head. "What?"

"Yeah." She examined him. "But she wasn't going to the Sahara. She was heading into the Umbrella. She looked like she'd forgotten how to button her shirt."

"Oh, yeah. Hey, you want something to eat? We can order room service."

"Are you serious? She was dressed in a dealer's outfit, Chris. But with no buttons. And all you can talk about is food?"

He pulled her even closer, so that their heads were touching and she could smell his sweat, his breath. She could feel how warm he was.

She wanted to stay there forever.

"All part of the master scheme, baby sister," he said. "Now, c'mon, don't you want something to eat? It's on me."

Claire let herself enjoy the proximity for a moment. She could see them from a bird's-eye: two auburn-tinged heads, identical from a distance.

She pulled away. "Chris," she said. She placed her words carefully. "Your wife is going undercover at The Umbrella."

"Yeah," he said, with an ease that betrayed his own pleasure, "But don't worry. Jill can take care of herself." He grinned again.

It wasn't Jill that she was worried about, and he knew it. She smiled at him anyway. She shifted to get up, but he was brushing her hair back. A smile played on the edges of his lips.

"Working tonight?"

"Yeah." It was the only reason she ever left her hair down. "In a few hours."

Her leg was hiked up on the edge of the bed. His hand was tracing it before she could move it away, and he was frowning. "Where'd you get this?"

The bruise from last night was still tender.

She tugged her skirt down, willing it to cover her skin. She took her leg off the bed.

"Just clumsiness," she said, which was true enough. Chris dropped the subject, although his eyes went to her leg a moment longer.

He leaned back down on the bed, stretched his arms out, and yawned. "Just stay away from the Umbrella."

She leaned over him and made a face. "So it's okay for Jill, but not me? Aw. That's sweet. You're worried about me."

"I'm serious. The bastard who manages that place is a dick, and he's only one of them. He's supposed to be good-looking, too. Double threat."

She frowned. She'd never been in the Umbrella. Chris hated it, and it had always been overrun with crime – not a good crowd. For about two seconds, she worried for Jill.

For about two seconds.

"Don't forget to get up and do some work."

He smiled up at her. "What work?"

She drew away, grinning. She'd been wrong: isolation hadn't clung to her. Back East she had been Claire, full of smiles and platitudes. Not Chris's Claire. Not the girl who thrived in a wasteland.

_Like they were the only two in the world-_

She got up quickly.

"I gotta go. I'll talk to you later."

"Later." He had already closed his eyes again.

Claire made sure to shut the door softly.

* * *

><p><em>May 2, 1959<em>

The streets that she walked to get to the Sahara were good streets, or, at least, as good as the streets got on the Strip. Sometimes she could smell the sickly-sweet decay of trash as she passed parking lots, but never for long. Trash was uninvited. The truth was unappetizing, and the Strip existed to whet appetites of all kinds.

Even so, there were crows picking at trash. They didn't start when Claire walked by. _Typical. _

She turned from them up to the blinding red-and-white neon of the casino across the street. Remembered her brother's words: _stay away from the Umbrella. _

Someone was walking in.

One of the birds cawed and flew off. She could hear its flapping.

A _woman_. In a dealer's outfit, baring a lot more skin than any male dealer would have.

The blonde head turned, almost as though it were worried someone was watching it.

Jill.

Jill Valentine.

Jill was never a Redfield, not when Claire thought of her.

She was no family of Claire's.

* * *

><p>It was a slow night at the bar.<p>

That didn't stop Claire's mind from racing.

Her voice was getting hoarse already, so much that she could hear it, that rasp that somehow sounded so poor and desperate.

In the dark, writhing crowd, people talked through her, like they couldn't hear her at all.

Breath in.

Sing.

She wanted a drink when this was over.

* * *

><p>She watched the door through her mirror, but it never opened.<p>

He never knocked. Their affair – if she could call it that – was on his schedule.

When he didn't come into the dressing room that night, she wasn't sure whether she should be relieved or not. But she knew why he did it. _He's making you sweat, letting you wonder whether you're really worth that month off or not. _

He was so concerned with appearances, with letting her know she was a second-rate lounge singer and he was a Very Important Person. _Pedantic._ That was probably what got him off.

_She _was doing the favor of fucking him.

(But then, there were plenty of girls who wanted to sing at the Sahara.)

Suddenly unsettled, she unzipped her mermaid gown and stared at herself in the mirror, under all the dim bulbs. They gave her skin a faded glow. Made her look not-herself.

Kind of unreal and blurry, like a magazine cover.

With a jerk, she wiped off her lipstick with the back of her hand.

It made a red streak across her face.

* * *

><p>It was four in the morning when she took the third whiskey sour and drank it.<p>

It was not her third drink. She had alternated. Chris had always told her _don't alternate _because something about the drinks hitting her harder, but she could hardly feel them.

_Chris. _She missed him. Why hadn't he come to see her?

_A blonde head, pale blue eyes, buttons undone. _

Jill.

He was busy. With other things.

She took another sip. The sip became a chug. She slammed the empty glass down.

She had felt so _isolated_, there. And she felt like she had only brought it back with her, like some foreign disease. What if it passed on to Chris? Where would she be then? But she needed him. She needed his warmth, his arms around her. His lips on her eyelids – _don't cry, baby sister. _

But that was silly. She hadn't cried in front of anyone since she was fourteen.

"Have you seen my brother?" she asked the bartender.

He replied that he didn't know who her brother was. She'd been so offended she hadn't bothered to clarify.

As she finished her drink, she realized that she wasn't the only one drinking.

The bartender was wiping down the bar. His mouth twitched when he saw her still there. "You going home yet?"

Claire looked at the stranger at the end of the bar. She recognized something about him, something familiar and immediate, but all she could think of was Chris and _why didn't this idiot know _and she couldn't quite place him.

She had an iron liver, but things were beginning to spin at that point.

"Maybe," she said. "Maybe not."

He was nursing a drink, something a bright yellow, like a pane in a glass lamp. _Rusty Nail. _She knew all the drinks. From Monaco.

The stranger's hair was straight and light enough that it shined in the dim bar.

"Hey," she said. Her voice sounded hoarse. She tried again. "Hey. Have you seen my brother?"

He followed her up the staff steps.

They were both drunk, but she was probably more drunk. She could tell he was playing along. But that was okay. It meant he wanted to sleep with her.

Claire strained for sound, but she couldn't hear it, not this many floors up. The place was deserted. Not too unusual for a Tuesday night, not at four AM. All the worst were still at the tables, tired eyes stuck on the cards. All the rest were in their rooms.

Still. Claire found it unsettling.

Even more unsettling than the silence was her liberation. Like they were the only two left in the world. Like everyone else had died.

_He looks like me. We've got the same eyes, same hair. Everyone says we've got the same smile, but I don't think that's true. Have you met his wife? _

She remembers slipping, sprawling like a drunk mess on the steep steps, that bruise forming on her calf.

She'd laid still as a corpse while he'd held out his hand. _Chivalry. _She thought the word, but her tongue couldn't make out the sounds. Anyway, she hadn't taken it. She staggered back to her feet without his help.

_I forgot, you wouldn't know her. This woman – she's blonde now – and I've never seen her smile for real. _ _Maybe at him. Once. Maybe that's why he likes her. He likes getting things, you know? _

They were outside his office, she remembered that much. She remembered. Everything was just _there_, it was just the details that were unclear.

That's where the devil was, though.

Her ear went to the door.

_He's not in. Yeah, he keeps weird hours. Who? It's my brother. _

He laughed. She saw the way he touched his hat, all smooth bravado, all macho. He looked like he was about to trip, too, but not like she was.

He'd reached out to open the door, but she'd caught his hand.

_No, _and she'd almost been angry at him, _It's my brother's office. Not in there. _

He'd backed off.

She'd tugged at his wrist.

_Come on. This way. _

The Blue Suite was locked, no matter how she'd struggled. She'd known how to pick locks, once, and tried to show him, but she was never much good at it. She'd looked over to him for help.

When he looked back, she caught his face in the hall light.

He looked like Leon Kennedy.

She couldn't speak for a moment.

_Tongue-tied?_

She'd turned away and shrugged.

_I'm gonna go get the key. I'll be back. _

She'd walked down the hall, down the main steps. She could hear noise. The STAR never closed, not even at dawn. Not entirely. There were always people willing to lose.

The next part, Claire remembered clearly.

She'd palmed the key from the front desk (_they _knew who she was). The lobby was empty, emptier than Claire could ever remember it being, and everything from the dull yellow light to the sleepy man behind the desk made her wonder exactly how drunk she was.

Then a pale, lithe figure had entered through the doors.

The head was bottle-blonde, and Claire hadn't given it a second thought.

Then Claire remembered, and she looked again.

Jill was staring at her from across the room.

It was brief. Jill blinked, then started up the stars. She didn't pry. She didn't say hello. But she sure as anything noticed the key in one of Claire's hands and the heels in another – the flush in her cheeks – the late hour – _I wonder if her brother knows where she is - _

Claire got angry, because if anyone had reason to be ashamed, it was Jill.

But she had closed her hand over the key, anyway, until its ridges had left an imprint in her palm.

Then she slid it back across the desk.

* * *

><p><em>May 3, 1959<em>

Walking out of her brother's room, Claire ignored the bruise and thought, instead, of how happy he was to see her back.

_I'm where I belong, _she told herself.

Blood was thicker than water.

Especially after they'd spilled it together.

* * *

><p><em>So I want to warn you laddie<em>

_That although you're perfectly swell_

_That my heart belongs to daddy_

'_Cause daddy, he treats me so well_


	5. Save the Last Dance For Me

**_You can dance, every dance with the guy_**

**_Who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight._**

**_You can smile, every smile for the man_**

**_Who held your hand beneath pale moonlight._**

**_But don't forget who's takin' you home_**

**_And in whose arms you're gonna be._**

**_So darlin' save the last dance for me._**

* * *

><p><em>(May 2, 1959<em>

_The Umbrella_

_10:05 AM)_

"That's the mechanic's grip." Wesker followed her every move.

Jill smiled and kept going.

"No... no, that's the clearest indicator you're bottom dealing. Any whale worth his salt will see it a mile out... fix your hold."

She bit her lip as he adjusted her fingers.

He grazed her breast.

She shivered.

He watched her face, his own unreadable. "Now the Confederacy."

She set the deck down. He cut it at an exact point, his eyes still flirting with hers.

"We work together... and the cheat becomes exponentially easier... you see?"

She nodded.

"Go on. Try to screw me."

"Try?" She grinned wickedly and began to deal the pre-arranged deck. "Too late for that..."

"You have to work on the sound." His hand snaked up her bare thigh.

"Sound?" She asked, more breathy than she would have liked.

"The sound... a good player will hear the difference in the way a cheater deals. But continue..."

He ran his fingers down her belly and kissed her knee.

She put down the final card in his hand.

He picked it up.

Fanned them out before her on the silk sheets.

"Shit."

Not what she'd intended to deal.

He sighed. "We have all the time in the world, Jill."

Wesker stretched and slid off the bed, slipping into a robe.

He tossed open the curtains and let the early morning light in.

Jill put the deck back together.

He stared at the horizon, a dreamy expression as he watched the desert sun. "There's a new boy out there... Down a'ways."

She fumbled, the cards flipping out of her hand. She swore under breath and brushed the bangs out of her face, pretending to work with the deck. _Christ. He's getting really good at guessing..._ "What?"

Wesker turned. "Chris Redfield. Remodeled that battleaxe and calls it _The Star_ now." He pointed over and down.

Jill stared. "Never heard of him."

"No?"

"No."

"Hmm." He watched her. The eyes that were warm and bright as he made her come, the eyes that were playful and flirtatious as he taught her his favorite tricks - turned cold and bleak as a winter sky.

Her heart beat so hard in her chest it hurt.

"Well, I think I'd like to invite him over for a game. Welcome him to the neighborhood."

Jill paled. She tried very hard to maintain her stare, hold even in front of him. She cleared her throat. "Would you?"

"Yes." He smiled.

The smile wasn't genuine. It crept up as far as his cheekbones and then stopped. The skin stretched tightly at the corners of his lips in its falsehood - a plastic gesture.

She knew she must look ill with fear.

"Is there a problem, Ms. Valentine?"

The air between them sizzled.

He was her lover one minute and a tyrant the next.

"No... sir."

"Excellent. We'll see what he's made of. Together."

* * *

><p>She laughed and dealt.<p>

Dealt and laughed.

Confidence growing with every hand.

He put her at the center table and she'd quickly become one of Vegas's hottest shows.

Jill Valentine, the Strip's first woman dealer, drew men out like zombies from the other gigs; made women sick with envy; was the shining apple of her boss's eye.

They ate from her hand here.

She was getting used to it, _liking_ the attention, the stardom - picking up shifts above and beyond her thirty-two hour week.

Jill saw Chris less and less.

It didn't bother her as much as she knew it should.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Oh, I know that the music's fine<em>**

**_Like sparklin' wine, go and have your fun._**

**_Laugh and sing but while we're apart_**

**_Don't give your heart to anyone._**

**_And don't forget who's takin' you home_**

**_And in whose arms you're gonna be._**

**_So darlin' save the last dance for me._**

* * *

><p><em>(May 1, 1959<em>

_The Umbrella_

_11:30 PM)_

He reached between them – the men were three deep around her tonight.

"Valentine."

She laughed, a well-placed snort at the end. She followed with her hand to her mouth, looking up – self-conscious. They fell over themselves in laughter with her, for her.

She was just so irresistably charming, so irresistably home-grown, so irresistably sweet.

"Ms. Valentine."

He called her, a second time, bumping shoulders with a guy in a cheap tan suit.

They glared at each other.

"Ms. Valentine!"

She stopped laughing, abrupt.

Every man at her table turned to him.

"Sir?" She asked.

* * *

><p>"I... but... It was the middle of a hand..."<p>

He'd yanked her off her post, taken her in the peak of a game.

She followed him, weaving through the throng of gamblers and drunks.

They broke out into the main lobby – Jill practically jogging to keep up.

People stopped whatever they were doing, stopped to stare at them, at _him_.

They passed by whispers; she caught bits of conversation.

"_... really somethin' else..."_

"_... inherited more than half of Spencer's estate..."_

"_... an absolute animal in bed..."_

The casino felt crowded and upsetting on the floor – nothing like the sheltered space she owned behind the poker table.

An endless river of bodies, smoke, and alcohol.

Suddenly, she was afraid of drowning.

But Wesker had her by the arm, the doors of the Umbrella within sight.

He was in front of her, leading her out, rescuing her.

Slithered up the stairs at the entrance, his fingers hot on her skin.

She saw the turnstile door, could almost feel the burst of fresh air.

They exploded into the night, holding hands.

_Free._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Baby, don't you know I love you so?<em>**

**_Can't you feel it when we touch?_**

**_I will never, never let you go;_**

**_I love you, oh, so much._**

* * *

><p><em>(May 1, 1959<em>

_The Umbrella_

_Gionne Penthouse_

_11:40 PM)_

"She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?" Ada asked, following her into the suite.

Excella threw a vase.

Rose stems and baby's breath all over the floor – petals and water on the wall.

Ada raised her eyebrows, chewed her lip, adjusted her diamond tennis bracelet.

Waiting for the tantrum to end.

_"Quella fica stupido!"_

Excella raged on in front of the vanity, sweeping everything to the marble tiles.

"She was running with him! Holding his hand!" She tore at her hair. "Did you see? Did you see him? He was running!"

Powdery beige make-up clouded the air. A glass perfume bottle smashed and suddenly the room smelled like freesia and plum.

Ada frowned. "That was expensive, dear. You should have just given it to me."

Excella screamed, picked up her red pump and whipped it at the mirror.

The crack spidered out and she stared at herself, fractured into a million tiny reflections.

_"Lui è mio. Non la sua."_ She turned to Ada, pointed to herself. _"Mine."_

"I know, dollface. I'm not too keen on the new slut either." Ada, collected and prim as ever, settled on a chaise lounge, crossed her spindly legs and smiled.

"How long? How long has that _whore_ been here?"

Ada shrugged, her delicate hand running down the fur collar of Excella's discarded coat. "I don't know… A month, maybe? She came on board just after you left for Italy." She paused, glanced up, turned the knife deeper. "He's quite taken with her, as you can see."

Excella collapsed then – a heap of cliché on the wet, flower-petaled floor. She wept, her mascara running down her cheeks dramatically.

Ada sighed. "Perhaps she's just a phase. You know how these things go with him. And you… well… he adores _you_."

She wept harder, sobbing into her hands.

"Oh, don't be like that. You're secure, dear. He needs you. That's something, isn't it?" She tried.

Excella looked up. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "You think he needs me?"

"Of course! Where would he be without you? Without your father?"

Her bottom lip quivered. "He's just using me for my family's money!"

Ada stood then, crossing the room. She lifted Excella's face, looked down into her red eyes. "Now listen to me. It doesn't matter why, dear, it never does. What matters is he _needs_ you. He needs you – whether it be for your money or what's between your legs or your goddamn father. He needs you a hell of a lot more than you need him."

Excella's mouth turned down at the corners. Her lipstick was smeared.

She looked like she had a Glasgow Smile.

It would be a long night, consoling the moll.

She would need some help.

Ada shook her head. "You have any more of that good blow, dollface?"

* * *

><p>"Where are we going?"<p>

He pushed her into the waiting car.

They slid across leather, Jill scooting to the other side as he threw himself in.

Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry.

She didn't know what was happening, didn't know why.

But her head throbbed in lucidity, and her body was sick with aliveness.

She felt like she'd gotten away with something. She felt like she'd cheated and won and escaped.

Breathless and achey and shivering.

Jill smiled at him.

He looked at her… and smiled back.

He tapped the driver's seat, urging the cabby on.

"Where to, sir?"

"Anywhere. Just drive."

He cast a wary stare at the Umbrella, it's red and white lights fading on his face.

She watched him. "Where are we going?"

He turned to her.

And he kissed her violently until she kissed him back.

* * *

><p>"Are you hungry, Ms. Valentine? It's midnight. And you're very hungry, aren't you? I'll feed you." He whispered against her mouth, biting her bottom lip.<p>

She stayed in his arms, feeling the clothes between them, feeling his nose pressed to hers. The leather protested every time they moved and the back of her knees were sweating on the seat.

She'd never known such heightened awareness.

They'd driven less than half a mile, but it had taken an eternity.

She was grateful for it as his tongue found hers.

He pulled away then.

"Driver… Take us to the Peppermill."

* * *

><p><strong><em>You can dance, go and carry on<em>**

**_Till the night is gone and it's time to go._**

**_If he asks if you're all alone_**

**_Can he take you home? You must tell him, "No"._**

**_'Cause don't forget who's taking you home_**

**_And in whose arms you're gonna be._**

**_Save the last dance for me._**

* * *

><p>"Albert! Albert – over here!"<p>

A voice that was all at once masculine and feminine.

Rather large hands with red fingernails waved at them from the center of the restaurant.

"Oh dear…" Wesker pulled Jill closer, his fingers slipping between hers and squeezing. They approached the table and he leaned in to her conspiratorially. "Will Birkin and Lisa Trevor… He's a dear friend of mine from the Manhattan days and she's his… mistress… or he's hers… I've never quite figured it out."

And then he beamed at them, all brilliant white teeth and jovial-natured.

"Albert!" Lisa stood to greet him.

Jill almost gasped.

_She_ was taller than him, hunched over in her height. A massive head of auburn hair, sweeping every which way and biceps to rival any man.

Lisa threw her arms around Wesker.

He patted her back. "Ms. Trevor, it's so lovely to see you. It's been too long."

"It's always too long, Al." She pinched his cheeks and spoke to him through gritted teeth. Jill saw him wince.

When Lisa sat back down, Wesker politely rubbed away the pain in his face. He reached out to shake Birkin's dainty hand.

"We were just talking about you. How absolutely terrific that you've appeared!" Birkin clapped. "Sit! Sit!"

Lisa joined in and they were both clapping then, wild and loud.

Jill was startled by their boisterousness.

Wesker pulled out a chair for her and pushed it into the table.

The couple stared at her. Blank smiles. Suddenly, she was self-conscious.

Lisa might have been a hideous giant, but she wore a flashy purple evening gown of the latest fashion and even Wesker's old friend, rodent that he was, looked debonair in his tuxedo.

The uniform she still had on itched and burned against her skin.

She should not have come.

It was too early for a thorough seduction anyway.

Albert Wesker, she knew, would take careful handling… and tonight was not careful. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

"Champagne? Champagne for… uh… for–" Birkin stuttered.

"Ms. Valentine." Wesker answered, draping a napkin over his lap.

Birkin nodded and poured. "Champagne for Ms. Valentine!"

Lisa laughed. "Yes! Champagne!"

Jill exchanged a glance with Wesker. He grinned and winked. "Bubbly for everyone, right Lisa?"

"Right, Al. You're always so right. Right as rain."

Wesker raised his glass. "To 1959."

Will joined him. "To Enovid!"

Lisa laughed again – a shrill, contagious braying that echoed in the Peppermill Fireside Lounge.

They all turned to Jill.

Waiting.

Wesker arched a pale eyebrow.

She raised the flute of rosy courage. "To The Umbrella… Long live Umbrella."

* * *

><p>The waiter stood by as they scoured the menu.<p>

"What's good here, Lisa?" Wesker asked.

"Oh… well… Um…"

"It's all good." Will waved, dismissive.

"I heard it's all bad." Wesker sighed, flipping the menu over.

"You know what is good? That new place – on the corner. You know the one." Lisa cut in.

"The corner? Which corner?" Will scratched his head.

"The _corner_, bunny… The corner." Exasperated.

"_The_ corner, Dr. Birkin. You know the one." Wesker mocked them. "Tell him, Lisa. Let him have it, why don't you?"

She laughed and laughed, slapping the table, roughing up William. Big, bellowing bleats.

The waiter frowned, shifted his weight. "Might I make a recommendation, sir?"

"No." Wesker squinted. "Ms. Valentine? Have you made a decision?"

She licked her lips. "I will… have whatever you're having."

"Everything." He put both hands on the table. "I'm having everything."

"Sir?"

"You heard me. Bring it all. Every last dish." Wesker smiled and handed the waiter his menu.

* * *

><p>They moved tables over.<p>

Piled them high with four different cuts of the finest steak, buttery lobster and shrimp cocktails made with prawns the size of fingers.

Lisa's laughter caught on as the champagne flowed.

Wesker carved a hunk of bleeding prime rib off the bone and let it slip off the fork where it stewed in its own jus.

"And so after the war… I took up the noble cause of women's freedom." William babbled on, stopping to suck the meat from a crab leg.

"Women's freedom?" Jill smiled.

Wesker laughed and mimicked Birkin's prideful posture. "Women's freedom, Ms. Valentine, extends as far as the genitals for our friend William here. He's on the panel for FDA approval of Enovid. It's the first oral contraceptive to be legalized."

"Good ol' Eisenhower. Looking out for the ladies of America…" Will kissed up Lisa's thick neck.

"Contraceptive?" Jill was confused.

"Yes, dear! Birth control! You know… _The Pill._" Lisa leaned across the table, hissing and nearly knocking over her fifth glass of champagne.

"Oh. Right. The Plll." She agreed.

"It's unfortunate that you failed to push it through before Annie…" Wesker pointed to Will and then trailed off. "Well… before Sherry, rather."

They all laughed.

Jill watched them – pretending to be rapt. "Who's Annie?"

"William's wife," Lisa said. Nonchalant. Blasé. "She just had a baby. Baby Sherry. Isn't that lovely?"

She was a bit more enthusiastic at the mention of a child. Birkin giggled and cuddled up to her. She fed him a grape that had been part of the centerpiece. He nibbled her fingers and she went into hysterics again.

Jill took a deep breath at the easy reactions to Birkin's indiscretions. "Yes… Babies are great."

Wesker stared at her from the corner of his eye, sly smile.

"What a striking girl you are, Ms. Valentine!" Lisa announced, as if seeing her for the first time.

William nodded, vigorous. "Striking. Yes." He swallowed an oyster, handed the next to Wesker.

"You're not a natural though… are you?" Lisa stared her – fuzzy brown eyes. "Something… not real about you…"

Jill's heart stopped. "I'm sorry?"

Wesker's hands were busy slicing the prime rib.

Blood and flesh so pink it was still cold.

She watched him, her breath caught.

The meat was halfway to his mouth.

Everything came to a standstill.

Lisa stared. William stared. Wesker stared.

"Your hair, darling. It's just so… _white_." She finally blurted out. "Surely it isn't real, is it?"

"Oh, Lisa!" Will scolded. "You're so thoughtless! Apologize!"

Lisa looked shocked. "I'm only making conversation, William. You told me to make conversation!"

Wesker laughed around the fork, the steak.

Jill laughed too. "It's fine. You're right… I'm a bottle blonde. You got me."

* * *

><p>He touched the back of her neck, his mouth close to her ear. "I'm headed to the little boys' room, Ms. Valentine."<p>

He folded his napkin and stood.

She watched him saunter off around the fireplace, until he disappeared in the dim light.

Her company canoodled over a ridiculous slice of German chocolate cake.

Jill fidgeted.

A minute ticked by… and then another.

The lively chatter in the dining room had simmered down to a whisper as all of the lovers huddled down in booths, preening and telling private jokes, private stories.

The Peppermill had grown intimate, quiet.

Lonely.

Jill looked down. "I'm going to go check on him. Make sure he didn't… fall in."

She joked, but Lisa and Birkin didn't hear her.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Oh, I know that the music's fine<em>**

**_Like sparklin' wine, go and have your fun._**

**_Laugh and sing but while we're apart_**

**_Don't give your heart to anyone._**

* * *

><p>Jill crept around the corner, down the dark hallway to the restrooms.<p>

"Mr. Wesker?"

No reply.

She knocked softly on the men's room door. "Mr. Wesker?"

"I was wondering when you'd wise up."

She turned to him.

He backed her against the wall, an arm on either side of her. "Are you having a good time?"

"Yes."

The low light accentuated his sharpness, made his pale blue eyes glitter like topaz.

He looked her up and down in one long, slow sweep.

She shivered. "Do you wanna… get back… to –"

"No, Ms. Valentine. I'd like very much for you to join me in the ladies' room though."

* * *

><p>She was gasping for air, sweat dripping down her thighs, her neck.<p>

He had her in one of the stalls, had her pressed up against the swinging door, the lock straining under their weight.

Wesker nipped her throat as he shrugged off his sport coat. His mouth was on hers again and she cried into him.

Eager fingers worked the buttons of her uniform and yanked the blouse open.

She thought to push him away, to stop him.

But she couldn't.

She wouldn't.

His lips followed the curve of her breast. He bit at her nipple through the lacy bra.

"We should… they'll…"

The air was so thick and hot she felt she would choke on it.

He looked up at her from under heavy lashes. "They'll what, Ms. Valentine?"

His hand was on the inside of her thigh – the friction of his touch through the stockings made her squirm.

Jill couldn't help the moan.

"_Shh, shh, shh…_" Pushed his fingertips past her lips, felt her sharp little teeth and her perfect tongue, lapping at him. "They'll what, hmm? Suspect that we're here – in the powder room? My hand up your skirt?"

She kept his gaze, unblinking.

He kept his hand over her mouth, ripped her hose with the other.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

He tore at them again and the felt the wet air on her bare thighs.

She held her breath.

Wesker let her go and knelt in front of her - spreading her legs.

Jill wobbled in the high heels.

"What is this?" He asked, incredulous.

She looked down. "What?"

He stroked her naked, hairless sex. Stared up at her – his expression reverent. "What is this?"

Jill bit her lip. "You don't like it? The showgirls do it that way."

"Is that what you are, Ms. Valentine? A moonlighting showgirl?" He was smiling.

He licked his lips, licked his teeth. A quick, unconscious movement.

She understood then that he was still hungry.

"Guess again…" Purred.

He nuzzled her. "An artist. Watercolor." He closed his eyes, smelled her skin. "Wait. A writer."

She looked up, listened to the piano player in the restaurant. The sound so hollow and tinny in the little bathroom: _Call Me Irresponsible._ "No… Not at all. One more shot."

Wesker laughed against her, his fingers tickling her ankle, then her calf.

He rubbed a rough cheek on her thigh. She gasped.

Her hands were above her then, gripping the top of the stall door until her knuckles were numb and white.

"A spy," he said finally.

Jill stopped straining. She stared down at him, panting. "_What_?"

"Oh God… you're _dripping_…" He murmured.

"You think I'm a spy?" She fought desperately to clear her head.

But the alcohol and the heat and her throbbing body…

"Hush… Shh…"

Jill all but forgot her own name as his tongue cleaved her.

He was a very hungry boy indeed.

* * *

><p><em><strong>And don't forget who's takin' you home<strong>_

_**And in whose arms you're gonna be.**_

_**So, darlin', save the last dance for me.**_

* * *

><p>"I am not, William! You take that back!" Lisa's voice boomed, trying to stamp out the laughter. She really couldn't help but smile though.<p>

Wesker was crying he'd laughed so hard. "Oh Jesus..." He wheezed. "Stop it. Stop. Both of you."

It seemed that every time Jill tried to take a drink, his friends chose to continue the comedy routine.

Their little group grew rowdier by the moment – one joke leading to another, one drink leading to another.

Wesker's hand was on her leg under the table. Her very bare leg, leading up to her very bare sex.

She jumped and wiggled as his fingers brushed against her slick lips. And then she sighed.

"You know…" Lisa lifted her glass, champagne sloshing all over the table, all over Will. "I like you a lot. You hear me, Albert? I like her." Slurred.

"You like her, Lisa. I've been made aware." He gestured to Jill. "Lisa likes you." He looked at Birkin then. "Do you like her too, Will?"

"Yes, yes. Striking girl. Can drink you under the table, old chap. Mark of a good woman." He nodded, his bottom lip sticking out.

Wesker turned back to Jill. "Well, it would seem to be unanimous, wouldn't it?"

His fingers stroked her. She squeezed her thighs together. Trapping him.

"Do you like me too then?" Her big blue eyes searching his.

He smiled, wicked. Leaned in so that his nose touched hers. "Do I _ever_…"

"I like her so much more than that _awful_ Excella, Albert." Lisa went on.

Jill felt him change at the mention of that name.

She uncrossed her legs, letting him go. Mood ruined.

But instead of retreat, she found he gripped her thigh –_ hard_.

She grimaced.

All the laughter died, except for poor Lisa's.

Wesker stared at her. His eyes, once drowsy and fun, now hard and cruel. "You know, Ms. Trevor… you always manage to destroy my evening."

Lisa gulped.

"Al... You know she meant nothing by it." Birkin tried to curb the impending argument.

"She never means anything by it, does she? I'm of the mind that she means nothing at all." He ground out the words. Hateful.

His hand was a vice on her leg then.

Jill felt her heart kick and then race.

"You… _Lisa_…" He growled. "Are no better than that dead _mother_ of yours."

And then the tears sprung like a leak.

Lisa wailed in agony. Wailed as if she'd been shot.

"Why do you always bring her mother into this, Albert? You know how sensitive she is… Shame on you." Birkin lectured, holding a napkin to his date's red face.

Lisa gasped, keening moans between body-racking sobs.

Wesker glanced at Jill.

He was smirking.

"Well, that didn't take much. Are you finished with your dessert, Ms. Valentine?" He patted her thigh as if he hadn't bruised it. "I think we'll make our dramatic exit now."

* * *

><p>The driver opened the door, but he pulled her away from the car.<p>

"Let's walk back, hmm?" He suggested.

He _ordered_.

Jill hugged herself and they began down the Strip.

The car roared to life behind them, turned around and followed. Slow, headlights off.

Cabs and limos beeped and dodged around.

"Are you cold?" He draped the sport coat over her shoulders.

It was warm. It smelled of him, of the casino, of the raw meat and the chocolate cake and the rosy champagne.

"Thanks." She pulled tightly under her chin and they walked.

He strolled – a leisurely Sunday kind of pace, hands in his pockets, the heels of his dress shoes _click-clacking_. Perfectly measured, perfectly even steps.

They passed the occasional couple, a group of excited young men, the tired regulars of Vegas and a burning trashcan.

"So you met Will in New York?"

"New York?" He asked.

"Manhattan, right? That's what you said."

He laughed. "No, no… _The Manhattan Project_."

"You were part of the Manhattan Project?"

"Yes. Will and I did. Sadly." He sounded distant. "My work there funded quite a bit of The Umbrella's take-over."

Jill stammered. "You're… so… you're a scientist?"

"I was."

She left it there. She could find nothing to say.

"Do you have a man to go home to tonight?"

The sorrow in his voice, the plaintive question, hurt her. She wasn't sure why. "No."

He smiled and looked down as they walked.

"What about you? What about Excella?" She knew the danger that came with the name, but she gambled. An appearance of jealousy would only help her.

He continued to smile. "She's insignificant."

"Still waiting for The One?" Jill pushed.

"No. I've found her." He looked at her and then took a sudden left turn.

Jill stopped on the sidewalk.

He stood in front of a construction site – cleared for building and surrounded by a chain-link fence.

"Do you see this, Ms. Valentine?"

She narrowed her eyes. "The plot?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "Yeah. It's a plot."

"It's not just _a _plot… It's _the plot_."

She shook her head, not grasping.

He turned from her and hung on the fence, peering through the darkness.

A child looking in the window of a toy store.

Jill watched. The Strip felt miles away from them.

He pressed his face to the cold metal, his fingers clinging. "I want this land, Ms. Valentine… I want it more than anything I've ever wanted in my life…" A confession in the middle of Sin City.

"Why?"

"It's the most prime location in this shithole of a town." He spoke slowly, softly. "The money… The future… Expansion."

"Can't you expand The Umbrella?"

"No. Not like this. The Umbrella is old. It reeks of the mob. It grows more obsolete with every passing day… I _need_ this." He looked at her. "I need this plot."

She went to his side, peered into the darkness with him. "Can you buy it?"

"It goes up for bid in a month."

Jill thought of Chris then. What it would mean for Chris.

Their car idled.

He stared into her eyes. "You're afraid of me."

She hesitated. "Yes."

"Everyone is afraid of me."

The air was cold and dry for May. She felt it in her bones.

She felt _him_ in her bones.

"I don't know what to think of you, Ms. Valentine. Perhaps you are a spy. A Mata Hari sent to me from someone I crossed in another life."

She trembled, looking up at him. "No… Al. I'm not." Dared to use his name.

"I know how I must seem… I imagine how I must look. Always moving, so demanding." He said.

He stared into the blackness, into the hole on The Strip. She waited, listening.

"I'm alive. I must live every day, every night, as if I'm on fire."

He touched her then, laced his fingers with hers.

They stood in front of the abyss, feeling like it would be the death of them both.

"When I finished my work on the bomb… and they started testing it out here, in the desert… I saw terrible things."

Jill held onto him.

"And then Hiroshima… Nagasaki…" His voice dropped. "There was no honor in what we did. None."

He paused. "I've seen how the world will end, Ms. Valentine. And so I have to live every day. There's only so many left, you see."

* * *

><p>He took her to his bed that night.<p>

She felt like she'd never really had sex before.

She'd never slept with a man who was on fire, or a man who was convinced he was dying, or a man who lived in the very center of _now_.

Not until he had her.

She belonged to him.

Making love to Albert Wesker was like cheating death and coming back for more.

* * *

><p><strong><em>So don't forget who's taking you home<em>**

**_Or in whose arms you're gonna be._**

**_So, darling, save the last dance for me._**

* * *

><p><em>(May 2, 1959<em>

_The Star_

_11:23 AM)_

Jill leaned on the wall of the shower, letting the near-boiling water stream over her, letting the fog cloud the mirrors, letting the steam carry away her thoughts in a mist.

Chris stood against the door, watching her blurry form through the glass half-wall.

She'd come home to him, exhausted and teary-eyed.

He waited until she'd pulled herself together enough to talk.

The water shut off.

She didn't come out though.

He looked at her through the heat and haze.

She finally spoke; _an oracle_.

"There's a plot, in the middle of the Strip. Prime location. He wants it more than he's ever wanted anything. He's going to bid next month."

Chris smiled. "Are you suggesting we counterbid?"

She was silent.

He turned over the idea in his head.

"He's gonna invite you over for a hand soon. He wants me to deal… and cheat you."

Chris laughed. "So he knows about me, huh? I'm not beneath his concern then? Arrogant prick."

Jill nodded. Their games didn't matter to her. "He was part of the Manhattan Project."

"Was he? Shit."

"Got some of his cash from that. Not sure about the rest yet."

Chris nodded, less intrigued by the secret than she'd pictured he'd be.

"You get him in bed, baby?"

"Yes." Jill buried her face in the corner of the shower, hid the tears she didn't understand. They just kept coming from some ugly, sorry place.

"Was he all that he's cracked up to be?" There was a smile in his voice.

She wanted to smack him. "_More_."

And then it was Chris's turn to be quiet.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Oh, baby won't you save the last dance for me?<em>**

**_Oh, you make the promise that you save the last dance for me._**

**_Save the last dance, the very last dance for me._**


	6. Grounds For Divorce

**_Mondays is for drinking to the seldom seen kid..._  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>April 28th, 1959<em>

California was supposed to be the greener side of the fence, but it seemed like as far as the eye could see, it was gold spat valleys and an endless covering of dust.

The Infamous Mojave Desert.

Across this last stretch of sand, the modern oasis of Las Vegas.

Jack leaned against the hood of the coupe, a cigarette halfway to his lips.

He never imagined he'd be spending his evenings watching the sun scald scrubland under the shade of some whistle-stop.

"Oi, got er' all filled up."

Jack rubbed his shoulder, kicked sand off the cracked blacktop, "Thanks."

The squat man stumbled up to him, waited "Where're you going?"

It was always the scar that made them ask, that caul of dead tissue covering his left side.

He looked like a monster man, and it always made them ask.

"Las Vegas."

The man whistled through his snaggle-teeth.

"Friend went there once, lost everything."

Jack stamped out the cigarette, rubbed it into the sand, "Looking for my woman "

"Oh-ho-ho- you and everybody else."

_Nice guy._

Jack kicked the car door open, struck another match, lit another cigarette.

The desert burned with it.

"Good look finding your lady-friend."

He shrugged and blew a tail of smoke at the blazing sun, "Thanks. Think I'll need it, too."

The man laughed, wiped his sweaty brow with his stained sleeves.

Jack looked ahead: endless seas of sand and cracked roads.

"She's harder to catch than smoke with yer' bare hands."

He followed the road with half a heart and a smoke-stained tongue.

_Las Vegas 30 miles._

* * *

><p><strong><em>I've been working on a cocktail called Grounds For Divorce.<em>**  
><strong><em>Polishing a compass that I hold in my sleeve.<em>**

* * *

><p><em>April 30th<em>_, 1959_

It was a convoluted night ruled by cash and chips already. Vegas was bustling, swollen. Her streets were fat with the poor souls she feasted on, her children dancing high above concrete walkways in black shoes: daughters of the devil's design.

Ada knew them by name, most of them, her flock of wayward miscreants, her protégé and business.

She was 'Madame Vegas' to the underworld, impartial catering to every erotic fantasy imaginable.

Were you rich, poor, a brute or a fey? She didn't discriminate if you had the cash.

Money spoke verity, and people _lied_.

_Les affairs sont les affairs._

The streets were the most disgusting and beautiful from the view of his room, the palatial complex of the _nouveaux riche_. She was lying on his expensive leather couch like a prize, leaning on her palm.

He let her in regularly. They spoke of business, shuffled cards over entrepreneurship.

A friendship, a competition.

_A game that sometimes lead past the threshold of his room and buried them in the sheets._

He seemed to like that kind of game. He was a rather fun lay too.

But as hard as he tried, _her _mind wouldn't quit her, so it was just fun and nothing more, nothing less.

Wesker perched upon his chair, one leg crossed over his knee, top shirt buttons undone.

Sitting like he owned the world- a god of his own design. He painted the city a new shade of sanguine red.

_She quite enjoyed his confidence._

"You let him in." she said, shuffling cards, musing.

"He pays." So blasé, an afterthought. "Spectacularly."

He plucked a small vine of grapes from a bowl dissecting each one individually.

She watched his tongue, thought about the expensive words he knew how to use and did not in her case. He wasn't interested in the issue- though with two of his precious words he could have done something about it.

_He could've gotten rid of Jack._

"Like everyone else?" She said, waving an accusatory finger, manicured to perfection.

She put the cards on the glass table for him to take, to inspect. She had deft fingers for the best eye, cheated much easier.

He took the cards, shuffled them himself twice, attention never swayed, eyes on her always.

"Naturally."

She rolled onto her back, hands behind her head.

_His apathy was a problem. He had promised her she would never again see that man._

It would gnaw at her in time, she was well aware of that. "Perhaps it would be easier to off him myself?"

It was a half joke: a teasing little tidbit to sample.

He regarded her with a look and a smile.

"_Absolutely_**" **he said between the plastic sounds of a hand being dealt to her, "Not."

'_Don't you dare.'_

Ada sat up, the folds of her dress sticking to the upholstery, cards at her fingertips, resting there.

"Oh come, Albert. I'm only _playing_."

_She didn't even try to lie._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Down comes him on sticks but then he kicks like a horse...<strong>_

* * *

><p><em>April 28th, 1959, 10:00 PM<em>

The city was a nightmare and a half compared to the desert.

He gave the keys to the valet only after the man insisted twice that no harm would come to his car, and yes, this was normal procedure.

The urge to set the beanpole of a man straight was overwhelming, but he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his old BDU jacket and planted another smoke between his teeth.

After all, he had to keep a relative calm in the shadow of The Umbrella.

There was a crumpled paper in his hand, newsprint caked in dust.

He may have been chasing a shadow, a coincidence.

_No such thing as a coincidence when your wife was in the headlines, leaning on the arm of an old friend._

'_The Umbrella- King of Casinos'_

_Ada Wong and Albert Wesker._

_Ada Wong._

The woman in the picture, she was thinner and tight around her neck, with wicked swooping lips.

_She looked like she had cheated the world and won._

Different name, but the same face, the same elegant face.

Jack walked the steps to the gargantuan glass doors.

It should have had a shadow, the Umbrella, but instead she bathed the stairs in light and neon.

_It seemed like witchcraft, all of it._

* * *

><p><strong><em>There's a Chinese Cigarette Case,<em>**  
><strong><em>And the rest you can keep...<em>**

* * *

><p><em>May 2nd, 1959 4:00 AM<em>

She took a final surveillance of the room, tapping the pen against her thigh.

It looked a bit like the end result of a wild herd set loose in the luxury suite, but the one-woman stampede was out of commission for the moment, so she could breathe a little easier.

"Well," she said, naked ankle grazing the corpse of a pillow, "at least it wasn't the window this time, Doll."

Ada switched legs, uncrossed and re-crossed and smeared the floral stationary over her knee in an effort to make a smoother surface.

'Dear Albert…'

She paused as the ink bloomed at the cusps of her letters.

Excella sniffled in her sleep, twitched and sent a mass of pillow down to the carpet.

_What a mess…_

He was probably parading about again.

The First Woman Dealer on the Strip, the headlines loved it with a snap of her simple magnetic smile.

A sort of Mona Lisa for the common man.

He would be blinding her with lights and kissing the soul right out of her. That Valentine girl would join the stars for just a moment under his tongue.

It almost made her kind of miss pretending.

Almost but not quite.

Being stuck in a room with this sorry, stupid creature for hours on end was working on her nerves- and after that spectacular show of how few good nerves she could hit, the bad ones were positively fuming.

She chewed her lip, mourned the loss of her traditional coat of lipstick (Her fancy of the month, Crushed Rose Scarlet) and added that on her list of things she _should_be compensated for.

Ada tossed the pen and paper back on the nightstand. Written word was unnecessary.

Her leaving was enough to make a statement to the boss, a rather blatant "_sleep with your own problems_**"**.

She slipped her dress back on, tied the halter and grieved the rips in the hem.

This act felt too cheap, and was as depressing as it was annoying.

She hated the reminder that she was, in essence, a glorified whore, and _he_knew this.

Not even a prostitute- her darlings were _paid_.

She looked between the unconscious girl on the bed, poor little fool, and the scattered possessions about, decided that it was quite unfair to be entertaining Albert's guest without benefit.

Ada kicked through scattered feathers and smashed complementary chocolates, dug out the survivor and admired it.

Of course Excella would bring something so posh- Dyed Russian Sable. Black chic fur with hanging sleeves and stone gray trim.

The price tag on this had to have been a good forty grand.  
><strong><br>"**Spoiled brat."

She slid the coat over her back and sunk into the folds, regaining a sliver of her pride in that moment. The trim kissed her shoulders, felt cleaner than her skin did.

_This was payment enough_.

* * *

><p><strong><em> There's a hole in my neighborhood<em>  
><em> Down which of late I cannot help but fall..<em>  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>April 28th, 1959<em>

They leaned over the balcony and watched the masses below, draped like tapestries.

"Are you coming tonight?"

"Not tonight."

He kissed her shoulder and she chuckled, "Still no."

The casino below was bustling, and there were a slew of things to be done and said. It was such a beautiful night...

Leon straightened up, cocked his hat back a fraction and sighed through his teeth. The music started again, floating through the room.

Ada smiled, closed her eyes, captured that moment when the jazz and the energy seemed to collide.

"Mm…"

Her smile was infectious "Thinking something?"

_Always_. She was a dreamer in the perfect dream, lights and sound and carpets painted with chips and pennies.

"It's a fabulous night, handsome."

She smirked, pointed at a couple wandering through the crowd.

"You see them?"

"Who?"

"The ones in brown- ooh, seems like they're lost again. Some people just can't ever find their way."

He strained his eyes; "No, what're you talking about?" pulled the brim of his hat up.

She turned his chin, pointed again, "The one with the horrible hat and the short broad."

"I still don't see them."

She rolled her eyes, "Well that makes one of us luckier than the other."

"How come?"

"He's a horrible bedfellow, just as bad as he looks."

He grimaced, "Well I see him _now_."

She started laughing into her hand, a giddy trill "You'd believe me for anything, wouldn't you?"

Leon huffed, blew the bangs out of his eyes.

"You're a horrible woman."

She laughed some more, fingers walking the railing up his arm.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" she asked, sliding the hat off his head.

"Hey- "

She popped the fedora on and it drooped, casting her face in shadow "I like your hat."

He snatched it back, twirled it in his fingers and she smiled at the trick.

"Audience loves the hat" He said, cocking it to the side.

"Skeddaddle, rascal. The boss won't like you late. Go- shoo."

He sighed, pulled her in for a kiss and everything was perfect. She couldn't stop grinning as the ol' crazy fingers in the lounge spilled another round of keys and the two-bit gamblers damned everything to Hell again and again. Sore losers and priceless expressions all around.

She couldn't stop that pleasured smirk of hers, all lips, no teeth.

"Ada, wait, I'll see you later?"

She felt sorry for him, the man with pretty blue eyes and that damned black hat. He liked to hold his tongue behind his teeth and frame it with Nail after Nail, that clever boy.

Not a gangster's slur about him, but the good boys and girls of Sin City loved this man.

The kiss lingered, sweet mix of alcohol and lips, and it was _perfect_ for the moment.

"Not tonight. Go already! _Vite, vite_!"

She pushed him off, shooed him, and laughed like a mockingbird, turned her back to watch the daily unfolding of the Umbrella. **  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em><strong>There's a hole in my neighborhood<strong>_  
><em><strong>Down which of late I cannot help but fall.<strong> _

* * *

><p>It didn't take long to notice the woman after she wandered in.<p>

A curious thing with a walk about her- and Ada swore she saw her before.

She saw this woman somewhere on the print of a paper, sandwiched between the headlines, a black and white photo... a somebody.

There were a lot of somebodies in Vegas- but not quite this kind of somebody.

A somebody who didn't want to be seen by _anybody_, by the looks of it.

But the Umbrella was alive.

It had eyes and ears and the poor girl couldn't hide if she tried.

Ada squeezed the balcony railing as this mysterious somebody looked up at her.

A face from the newspapers was staring at her, startled._How darling._

A fresh face, fresh lipstick- big _beautiful _blue eyes.

Red hair and fair skin- the pictures couldn't live up to something this colorful and exciting. She had seen that face before...**  
><strong>A hot off the press _star _in the spotlight. A singer? A dancer?

'Who are _you_, sweetheart?'

She smiled back and waved, elegant gesture-_please cast the bright lights upon this fair lady..._

Claire Redfield looked away, startled, and when she dared to look back..

_There wasn't a soul there._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Mondays is for drinking to the seldom seen kid.<strong>_

* * *

><p><em>Jack <em>wasn't sure if it was the smell or the clusters of people pulsing about tables over and over again, but he was sure he had dreams that made more sense than this did.

And his dreams were mostly nightmares.

_What was he expecting... following some month old headline and a photograph?_

A miracle, maybe.

_A miracle sounded beautiful right about now. _

The crowd undulated, people stared and moved on, some too drunk to care about the brute man, but most too preoccupied with winning or losing.

He tipped his head back, looked over the throng.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for, what he expected.

But what he got was an eyeful.

A woman was perched on a gold-railing, her body wrapped in folds of red and satin.

A woman he knew- he didn't think he'd see.

His body felt numbed. He wondered if she saw him- a gaping man staring skyward.

_He wasn't sure what he expected._

She turned from her perch, a desert mirage.

He had to follow.

_Even if it wasn't her; but it was!_

_The woman with devil's eyes._

* * *

><p><strong><em>There's this whispering of jokers doing flesh by the pound<em>****_  
>To a chorus of supposes from the little town whores.<em>  
><em>There'll be twisted karaoke at the Aniseed Lounge...<em>  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Things were sprightly, and pockets were slit by the hundreds. Everyone seemed in the mood to bet it all.<p>

"I usually know everyone around, you know?"

The woman looked up from her drink, pulled from isolation.

She was a picture come to life with rose-tinted cheeks.

Ada smiled again, slithered over the chair beside her "What's your name, Doll?"

Big blue eyes went to her drink, returned to the woman spilled like red paint beside her.

"Claire... Claire... er... yeah, just Claire."

'Claire' took to her drink like there was no other place she'd rather be. The name sounded familiar and fake all the same.

"Just Claire. _Clear_, _light. _What a lovely name."

It fit those eyes. Like illuminated windows, staring at her again.

"...Thanks. And who are you if you know everybody?"

Ada's fingers strung like spider legs, toying with Claire's bangs, invasive.

Claire looked like a petrified little rabbit clinging to some pungent poison in a cup.

"Well, I am..."

She stopped before she started.

Something caught her tongue like a snare and she froze.

"- Unfortunately I have to go."

Claire's knuckles were white around her glass, "Wait, what?"

"Deep apologies, Doll", she said, taking her hand as she stood and giving her knuckles a quick, sticky peck, "seems like I'm caught."

Claire jumped like it burned, "What?"

Ada moved like a red shadow over water.

One sift of the crowd and her color was swallowed up, she disappeared in the lights.

* * *

><p><em><strong>And I'll bring you further roses<strong>_  
><strong><em>But it does you no good.<br>_**

* * *

><p>He went after her, down the street around the block.<p>

Warped shadow puncturing the floods of lights until there wasn't a street to see.

"Wait."

She was halfway down the alley, like some terrible creature draped in red and shadows.

But she paused in step, a final click from the scarlet talons peeping out from her skirt.

"What-," he started, but how could he finish? What could he say.

She turned her head, her slender jaw tensed.

"What are you doing here...? Why are you **_here_**?"

She said nothing in return, muted.

"Answer me!"

His voice was saturated with sandpaper and the kisses of hundreds of cigarettes.

"I'm going home. You should do the same, Jack."

Her tone made his head throb.

Dear God it _was _her.

"Go home?"

At a loss, he strung air with his fingers.

"It's not safe at night, you really should **_go_**."

"Years-! All this time!"

She sighed, velvet and sin, "You should go home Jack."

He called her name, barked it down the alley.

_She didn't respond.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong><em>And it does me no good<em>  
><strong>

* * *

><p>She fled to the crossroads, her niche with rose-painted glass and illicit children.<p>

He was still wearing his ring, her ring.

Their ring, fused to his mutilated hand like some lonely little trophy.

The air felt heavier, harder to breathe.

Her feet were sore as she crossed the threshold into _Le Paplion_.

"Madame! Madame- … are you okay?"

Rebecca came flying down the hall, lovely little Rebecca, flustered and red in the face and practically tripping over her own gangly legs.

Ada pressed her hand to her chest to stop the racing there.

_Don't think about it, not now._

"Yes, sweetheart?"

Pitch perfect paramour ready to call the troops back to order.

Rebecca looked worried.

"I'm alright."

"You're shivering..."

"Oh? Oh, I am. It must be cold."

She slid behind the counter, room keys, pricing, documents.

"Are you sure-"

The Madame waved her off, "Go, darling. Tonight is a busy night. I'm here now."

Rebecca stood there, awkward and shy to the matron, the queen.

She didn't look well, their Madame.

"Go, sweetheart, I'm fine."

Ada folded her hands, her claws as she left back into place and held them.

She _was _shaking.

A nightmare man from seemingly nowhere- one eye milky and blind the other just as listless.

What a horrible image.

The door slid open, the scent of perfume seeped out.

Clients.

_Don't think about it, not now._

She spread her lips in that toothless red smile and balanced on her heels.

"Why hello there."

There was much to do, and the night was young.

* * *

><p><strong><em>And it does you no good<em>  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>May 2nd, 1959, Midnight<em>

It took a minute to pour out rich man's drug on a reflective serving tray, and about thirty seconds to cut it into a long thin line with the edge of Excella's beret.

She wasn't offered any, and she didn't ask.

In thirty seconds she ended up cradling the woman's head in her lap as the floodgates intensified into a half mad ramble complete with the foreign language narrative.

It was a pity it wasn't complete with subtitles.

Ada continued to run her fingers through the woman's matted hair, dissecting the bits and pieces of Italian and English she sputtered out. The bed was covered in discarded jewelry and a puddle of Excella.

"Did I cut you too much... Hmm..."

Excella may or may not have processed the sentence, but she laughed like a loon into the dress against her cheek, grabbed fistfuls of it.

"You're in the papers." she said, giddy.

Hysterical.

Ada combed through her hair, untangled knots. She had such gorgeous features and not any a single idea how to use them.

She smelled like luxury and naivety, vanilla and some foreign perfume- a bit disappointing really.

"If they're lucky enough to catch me, yes."

Ada wondered, looking at her now- what her skin smelled like under the bleary red eyes and bleeding makeup.

Excella rolled on her back, stretched her legs and her arms.

She was showing off, down to the gloss swerve of her lip.

"What are you going to do?"

"About what, Doll?"

Excella was smiling, her eyes were wide and red.A big smear of wax and powder clinging to her.

She smirked and leaned up, kissed the Madame on the cheek.

Ada set her jaw.

The lipstick stains were dirty marks.

"Albert. You're old," she laughed like it was the finest humor "and he _needs _me."

It took the poise of her persona not to stand and let the crooked girl drop right back into her own pity party. Smashed expensive objects and thousands of dollars of penthouse trauma.

"Oh hush, that's so rude of you, you creature."

She said it as sweetly as she could, sans a kick to the face and with a playful little toss of her hair.

Excella kissed her other cheek, left a mark this time, "You aren't as pretty."

"As you, _belle donna_? Is that how you say it?"

Another fit of giggles and the remark that she should stick to her own language.

Excella's nails went through her dress, she laughed and laughed.

"He'll put that _whore _in your house after."

Ada scoffed "I certainly hope not. She's hardly charming. Won't even give me the time of day."

"Maybe he can build another dirty place for the slut?"

Ada tapped her nails against the chair arm "well I always did say a doghouse would be perfect in the back. It'll add such a _je ne sais quoi_!"

More giddy, loonish laughter. Her accent spilled so heavily over her words it was hard to understand.

Another kiss, next to her mouth.

_One of those nights._

"Not _here_! _Tu sei stupido!"_

Ada rolled her eyes "I am, I am. The bottom of the sea, then?"

The kiss was on her lips, annoyingly sticky.

"Just down the road. It's perfect. He's buying it anyways, for _me_. I'll build a brand new house for all of you. He _is mine_."

Ada pulled back, sighed. She was too tired for this.

To her chagrin, the woman wasn't.

Another kiss and Ada damned the man who wasn't there at the cab hours ago.

The man who was playing in the streets with some blonde cardshark- a dime a dozen.

The absent man who convinced his mistress that she was property.

* * *

><p><strong><em>There's a hole in my neighborhood<em>  
><em>Down which of late I cannot help but fall.<em>  
><strong>

* * *

><p>The watercolor sky was gray and black, a day gone by and an entire cycle had slipped through her fingers.<p>

Vegas had lived and died again, and she wasn't there to do the same.

She wanted to turn the clock back, see the play by play; scene by scene that she missed on account of something that cost more to maintain than she felt necessary.

It was _not_ her job to be the babysitter of Wesker's leftovers.

She shouldn't have to be walking down the street and loathing the migraine behind her eyes and the indent of someone's sticky teeth on her thigh.

In retrospect, perhaps she should have divided that stuff a little more carefully….

She smirked.

'Clumsy me.'

And the long road home didn't seem half as bad anymore when she was laughing alone at her little joke.

* * *

><p><em><strong>There's a hole in my neighborhood<strong>_  
><em><strong>Down which of late I cannot help but fall.<strong>_

* * *

><p>Despite the exhaustion, she kept walking, down for a drink in the thick rich coat- where no one would see her take a slip of something potent to kick her eyelids shut and chase the worries away.<p>

It wasn't quite proper for her; she did have an image to uphold.

The Sahara after human hours still drew handfuls of eager wanderers.

Ada pulled the ruffled collar closer to her neck, slipped through the lit porte-cochere arch with a group of eager tourists.

The music was slow and sultry, hanging on the air.

People were jabbering on as if the hour wasn't of consequence.

"-I think she was great."

"You think everyone with a pair of tits is great."

"Redfield though, she's got _some_ talent."

"Seems like she's losing it though."

Ada listened, tagging along behind a jovial bunch of misfits and drunkards.

_Redfield, now that was a name worth noting._

She filtered through a crowd and a half, to the Kasbah Lounge and the song of an old brittle pianist on platform stage.

It seemed like a funeral drone, tables and chairs a mockery of a graveyard, so few occupied tonight.

A dollar drink and a quiet lounge, it was the slow side of the city that was never seen in advertisement.

This was Las Vegas flavored peace as she leaned over the mini-bar counter, pinched an Atomic Cocktail by the glass neck, and settled into a chair.

Hail the coming of yet another day and sleepless night with the rest of the Vegas owls.

An old ragged man in the corner, beaten down by the night, a pair of foolish lovers clinging to their drinks, her, and a sputter of green in the corner.

_A sputter of green with red hair._

Ada stood the moment she saw it, weaved between empty chairs to the table.

"Hey, Doll."

Claire jumped.

Her face was streaked, tired and worn, a bottle at her table and a well-used glass.

Poor thing was trapped in a tight emerald mermaid dress, hair a veil for her face.

Ada slid onto the seat, took a long look. "Rough night?"

Claire crossed her arms and pouted, flushed and sad- indigent, "No."

An employee interrupted, asked "Miss Redfield" if she wanted another.

Ada answered for her.

"Two."

Claire glared.

"What do _you_ want?"

_Redfield, now that's a name to remember…_

"You look sad, Darling. Seemed like you needed another."

Claire huffed and downed the rest of her glass, lips pale and swollen. She drank the gloss right off her lips.

"I don't even know you."

"Does that matter? It's _Vegas_, Claire, baby."

Claire shrugged, waved at whoever set a glass in front of her nose and relished in the pause.

Ada looked at the stage, sunk into the furs and sipped the new poison.

"You sing?" she asked.

Claire shook her head, "Yeah", stared at the table.

She looked like she wanted to cry, massive blue eyes, beautiful lips.

_Singing the blues all day without one word._

"Hey… want to come with me? Up to the lively side of the world, sweetheart?"

"Just leave me alone."

Ada leaned forward, took her thin fingers and kissed her palm. She was drunk enough for it to work.

_Claire Redfield, her face from the papers. A somebody._

"Come on, honey. No more drinks- just Vegas and us. It'll be better than this gloomy old dive…" She smiled, no teeth, exhausted. "No silly men around to bother you."

Claire snorted.

"They must be crawling all over you all the time, you poor thing."

She got a smile out of her and a drunken little giggle.

"…Alright."

Wesker would want her to squeeze the woman dry.

_Claire Redfield, sister of Chris Redfield._

Ada took her hand, helped her to her feet, and held her like a trump card.

Claire buried her face in the fur coat as if it would help her walk.

* * *

><p><em><strong>There's a hole in my neighborhood<br>Down which of late I cannot help but fall.**_

* * *

><p>Fate, luck, or karmic intervention, that was Vegas, and Lady Luck was with her at the sunrise.<p>

As they walked for a cab, it seemed like forever and she swore Claire was leading them wrong on purpose, the road gave way.

It was a big empty lot, sanctioned off with wire fence, and she wouldn't have noticed it.

Claire was losing every inch of coordination.

"Everybody says they're gonna build here" she slurred.

_'Just down the road. It's perfect.'_

Ada paused in step, morning fog hanging on her feet.

The sun was peaking over the desert, catching the world on fire.

She threaded her fingers through the links of the fence, stared, Claire stumbling after her.

"What is it?"

"…It's brilliant." Ada said, her words floating.

"What's brilliant?"

She could see _something_ there, a mirage of the desert, a dream, a hope.

A land on fire kissing a shadow city- god it was _beautiful_.

She needed to ask, to know and learn for sure- but there was something _there_.

"What are you doing?"

Ada took her by the shoulders. The world was waves of _Vegas_, Vegas…

Another game was afoot.

She brought her close and kissed her.

Albert would've wanted her to bring her back- to play her dry.

Ada decided, lips locked with a Redfield, that he'd only get what she allowed him to get.

_And she was going to take what she wanted if he wanted it.  
><em>

If he wasn't interested in holding his promises, neither was she.

Ada pulled away, lips drenched in her kiss.

She felt light-headed and faint, in love all over again, sick and alive all at once.

Claire gasped, fell against her, hopelessly lost, holding a devil.

And the devil along with Vegas, held her up as the world lit up all over again.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Someday we'll be drinking with the seldom seen kid.<br>**_


	7. Tango Till They're Sore

**Let me fall out of the window with confetti in my hair.**

**Deal out Jacks or better, on a blanket by the stairs.**

**I'll tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past.**

**So send me off to bed for evermore.**

* * *

><p>Las Vegas by night was a Hellish thing: an avatar of the old midways on Grand Street that would scream into the late evening sky and take respectable leave at the strike of midnight. He glanced at his watch: twenty to one, and Vegas was only in the callisthenic phase of her Saturday number. And as Leon Kennedy lived on The Strip, Leon Kennedy lived by The Strip. He blinked the liquor from his eyes and fumbled for another Benzedrine.<p>

Trotsky took the limo farther into Las Vegas Boulevard's gullet, and the riotous neon and crowds and shouting grew more frenetic. The blur made Leon's stomach lurch to starboard. His throat burnt from two hours of singing and cigarette smoke. The bennies hadn't hit yet, and the Rusty Nails were still doing their wicked business.

He'd felt half-dead by the time they'd wheeled away from The Umbrella, and there was a good five hours of drinking ahead. This passing respite in the back of Wesker's limo would be his only relief, and so he buried himself into the backrest and closed his eyes to the commotion.

"What's wrong?" Trotsky asked. His unflappably good humour slunk below the words. "Too much good times already?"

Leon cracked an eye. "Just refuelling."

"I thought you run on alcohol, no?"

He closed his eyes again. "Hey, Mikhail. Can you do me a favour?"

"Of course I can."

"Shut up and drive."

Trotsky mumbled something undoubtedly flattering, but he was a good sport and didn't say another word until they came to a stop in front of The Star's marquee.

The Star was an old whore in a new dress. There was the new neon, the new billboard —an ugly thing spelling out STAR in brash yellow and orange—but it was still the El Dorado: tired and worn and unbankable.

It was a waste of effort. They were close to springing the trap on Wesker, and now they had him slumming with the low-ballers and renting dick out to some hoodlum's baby-sister.

He glanced through the rear window, toward The Umbrella. There was no doubt Wesker would find out he'd been prowling other joints, and he would be less than pleased. So he ends up in Wesker's bad books again, and the FBI stalls on their investigation, all to chase after Redfield. The senselessness of it all made him want to punch something.

"Are you wanting the Big Arrival tonight?" Trotsky asked.

Leon swivelled forward and took notice to the assembly of casino-goers who had stopped to gawk. It was clear that no one high on the food chain came by, and his visit was bound to be an oddity.

He might as well play the part.

"Yeah, let's do it."

"Okay-d'okay, Comrade Commissar." Trotsky hooted the horn twice, flashed the headlights and swung himself out with a gust of aftershave and onions.

Leon's door was opened a moment later. He was already prepared for the onslaught of dazzling light.

"Thanks for the lift." From the corner of his mouth. It was bad form to outright address the help.

Trotsky only nodded and drove off, leaving him to the mass of regulars.

Just play it cool, better yet, play it drunk. Nothing out of the ordinary here, folks.

He wound through the crowd, glad-handing and flashing The Winning Smile ad infinitum. Above it all, The Star's new tower reared into the darkness. Construction cranes arched over the roof. They looked like a massive gallows.

The interior offered no escape. He was a marked man in this town, and to bump elbows with the masses was to be swarmed. A pretty young wife approached him, her Polaroid-armed girlfriends in tow. They sounded like a flock of shorebirds. He swung an arm around her, cupping one of her magnificent little ass-cheeks. She squealed; he mugged; the camera flashed, and they were gone forever.

Deeper into Redfield's territory, past the reception desk, he ran his hand along new wallpaper, making a point to lean heavily. The place had a cleanly-scrubbed look. There was the fresh paint, the sparkling floors, but it was still the El Dorado's crowd, and the smell of stale liquor and desperation ran deep.

And the bennies hit him all at once, as usual. His eyes felt oversized. He was sweating and needed a piss. A crowd followed his every move: patrons, staff, the pit boss. Nothing to worry though, booze makes a man sweat. He added a little stumble, turned it into a pirouette. See what fun Leon Kennedy was?

He nosed to the bar, sat heavy on the stool. Joe-Something, the same bar-slap from the other night, had a Rusty Nail poured by the time his coattails settled. Leon tossed him an extra two bits, drained it, and chomped an ice cube. Ice always helped with The Sweats.

Claire said she'd meet him as soon as she wrapped up at the Sahara. He hated waiting here, half crucified, fully tweaked. But no one said being an informant for the G-men would be easy.

"Keep 'em coming, Chief." He knocked on the bar with the empty glass.

Joe-Something nodded dutiful and pounded another nail.

Right into his coffin.

* * *

><p>He was staring through the bottom of a highball when a heavy hand clapped his shoulder.<p>

"Mister Good Times himself, I can't believe it."

He swallowed his last swig and wheeled around on the barstool, turned to no one other than the mysterious Chris Redfield.

His skin was like pig-leather. His hair had the occasional grey shoot, and he was dressed like a Cuban vacationer, but the thug was still in there, stabbing at the walls with a broken bottle. Everything about the man screamed small potatoes. Leon wasn't sure if he wanted to hate him outright or pity the clueless sap.

"Do I know you?" Leon relished the way Redfield's smile dropped - the Ashford-worthy scowl twitching the corners of his mouth.

"I own this place." He extended his hand. "Chris Redfield."

"Oh, so you're Chris." They shook hands: two strong pumps and a quick release. Redfield's grip was hot and painful. The type of guy who made everything a pissing contest. "Done allotta of work here, huh?"

"It's a start." He rapped on the bar. "Frosty, gimme a Balantine." He turned to Leon. "What you want?"

He wanted to take a leak. Fucking bennies always flushed him out. But Joe-Something was already pouring Drambuie over ice.

"There's only one drink worth his time, boss, and that's a Rusty Nail." Joe-Something flashed a farmboy grin. Leon watched him. Joe-Something had a cop's eye for detail: troublesome.

"No mix? You're a serious man, Kennedy." Redfield slid the drink to him.

"I'm not serious." Leon picked out another ice cube. "I'm Irish."

"Close enough. If you don't mind my asking, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Leon stifled a toothy grin. "I'm supposed to meet up with a girl here. Singer over at the Sahara: a real doll. Looks like the type of girls Sinatra sings about."

Redfield's mouth went tight.

"Hey, you might know her. She's a Redfield too."

His Balentine sloshed in its bottle. "She's my sister."

"Well, she got all the looks." Leon laughed and jabbed Redfield's shoulder. "Small world, huh?"

"Sure is." He exhaled through his nostrils, turned and waved him on. "C'mon, it's too damn loud in here. There's a room in back, and we got a poker game goin' on. You're welcome to join."

"Poker works." Leon lurched to his feet. The room swam. He followed Redfield's rooster-strut to the private lounge, deciding to forgo pity and shoot straight for hatred.

* * *

><p>Of course it was five card draw: Cowboy Poker, and Redfield's private room fit the game. The Star's gilding hadn't been added. Unfinished timber and hammered-iron remained untouched. Antlers and tack wept nicotine, and a screen of smoke obscured the players. They were two hands deep, and the scene looked ready for Wyatt Earp to storm in, pistols cocked.<p>

Leon glanced at the pot. The cowboy motif may have been strong, but cowboys never played with ten-dollar chips. His father's yearly salary lay in a messy pile. The sight made him queasy with rage. An honest cop had raised a family on less than this. During the depression this money would have fed an entire town. And now this overdressed punk was throwing it around like meter-change.

"Hit me,"

And besides, real cowboys didn't have Sicilian buddies with huge hairy knuckles and three-hundred dollar suits.

The dealer —a phlegmatic Kentuckian with eyes like frozen puddles— slid a card to the Sicilian. The Sicilian scowled and threw a card away.

"So, how's The Umbrella?" Redfield was eyeing him over his hand.

"It's a steady job."

"The Boss don't mind you parking yourself in another joint?"

"Wesker? Oh, he minds plenty. Takes me aside once a week to remind me that _he made a significant investment in me, and that it would be unwise to betray his good faith_." He mocked Wesker's monotone and sipped his Nail. "There's not much he can do but puff his chest though. I never signed an exclusivity clause in my contract. Never will. There's too much fun to be had in this town."

"You were at The Flamingo before, right?" Redfield threw another ten dollars in. "I raise."

Leon watched his father's daily pay roll toward the pot. He had to resist the urge to snatch it away. "Yeah, for two years."

"What made you change?" The Sicilian, who went by Rico, asked. "Wesker got deep pockets or something?"

The three men were staring at him. The Kentuckian's wet grey eyes were uncomfortable. It didn't help that they were firing drinks as fast as he could down them. Meanwhile, Redfield and his crew seemed sober as Quakers. Rico for sure, unless mineral water had some secret alcohol content he wasn't aware of.

He shrugged. "I like to move around. Besides, you guys don't like to keep the same side-show."

"Side-show?" Redfield asked. "Never thought you to be the modest type. You're a fucking goldmine. How often you sell out?"

"Pretty often. And you're wrong."

"Wrong? About what?"

"The goldmine, it's not me; it's my voice. It has this pitch..." He smiled. "Rattles the money out of a man's wallet."

"An' the bloomers off their wives." Kentucky added.

Even the Sicilian laughed at that.

"Well, when you're looking for a new gig, gimme a call." Redfield lit a pair of cigarettes and handed one off. "We got that dumb skag Elza Walker. She's terrible. I'd can her, but Ol' Forest is hot to trot."

The Kentuckian drew on his cigarette. One side of his face was paralyzed, and he lost as much smoke as he drew in. "That is a dirty lie, Redfield."

Redfield smacked him on the back.

"You want the job?" Rico glowered. "We can match what Wesker pays."

They were staring at him again. So this was what it was about: a job offer.

"Much as I'd like to..." He trailed off. "Wesker's still the biggest house in town. No offence."

"None taken." Redfield nodded.

"There's ways to convince him otherwise..." Rico muttered. The guy was doubtlessly Mafia, but he wasn't local, didn't have that five and dime gangster swagger. He came from high on the ladder, and he was all the proof Leon needed to decide The Star would look just fine boarded up as well.

"Quit with the thumbscrews, Rico." Redfield winked at Leon. "I brought him here to empty his pockets, not break his legs."

"We'll see who get who, Redfield."

He scoffed. "Yeah, we sure will. I raise."

"I fold." The Kentuckian tossed his cards.

"You in, Rico?"

"No." Rico placed his cards together and smacked them against the table leg.

"Just you and me, Kennedy." Redfield drew on his beer.

"That's right." Another ten dollars in. "Hey, why not get your sister to sing for you? She's got talent."

The Kentuckian had an odd laugh. Like a goat, or a moose maybe.

Redfield shot him a glare. "You got something to say, Speyer?"

The Kentuckian sipped his drink and wiped the dribble off his chin. "I might."

Redfield dropped the glare, grinned and shot twin puffs of smoke from the corners of his mouth. "Ah, you're alright, you dumb cracker." He mussed Kentucky's buzz-cut and turned to Leon. "Claire has trouble taking orders from me."

The Kentuckian's strange laugh again.

"Keep laughing and you'll end up with another bullet in the head."

Leon paused, turned. "You were shot in the head?"

Kentucky shrugged. "Just a biddy piece of metal's all."

"Just a biddy piece of metal. Listen to this guy." Redfield slapped the table and brayed. "Your head was open like a fucking pumpkin." He turned to Leon. "He got hit with a chunk as big as your thumb."

"This happened during the war, I assume."

"Yeah. Forest and me flew with the same squadron. Before he got hurt he was the second-best shot in the outfit."

"Who was the best?"

"You're lookin' at him. I sent a dozen Krauts home in pieces."

"That so?" Leon glanced first at Redfield's proud face, then to his cards. The man dealt bullshit, and bullshitters won the pot with their bluff. "Well, you're a regular hero, soldier. But back to matters at hand, I think I've got the winning cards. I call."

Redfield glanced at him. "You sure?"

"I'm always sure."

And a straight flush peeked from under Redfield's hands. He grinned and dropped the cigarette in his beer with a little fsst.

"Well, Hell." Leon dropped his full-house. Inside he was dying. "You're a lucky man."

"I was born lucky, and I'll stay lucky." Redfield was shovelling the chips toward his pile. Officer Joe Kennedy's yearly salary now belonged to a man with capped teeth and a pink suit.

Leon tried not to look seasick.

"I tell you, Kennedy. I was born to win." He was already making towers of the chips. His large and grinning mouth loomed over the red and white and green construct.

"You're not finished with him yet?"

They all glanced at the back door. A vulpine shape sashayed toward them.

Redfield smiled from behind his city of chips. "We're just getting started. Only played three hands. But your man's a natural, hunny."

"We still playing?" The Kentuckian was shuffling cards; his drunkard eyes were undressing Claire.

"You're running out of bourbon." She sounded bored.

"Tell Frosty on your way out. And yes, we're still playing. You'd better have some cash left, Kennedy."

Claire meandered to the table, set her drink and picked a cigarette from Redfield's pack. She looked like her brother. They had the same jawline, that outraged indignation: the undercurrent of every expression.

"Haven't you beat the poor guy out of enough?" She threw him a sympathetic look. "Let him keep his shirt."

"Shit, no. That's an expensive-looking shirt. Deal the cards, Forest."

The Kentuckian cracked his palsied half-smile. "Yessuh."

"Fine." Claire sidestepped Rico and settled behind Leon. Her hipbone pressed against his shoulder.

She smelled like cigarettes, booze and misuse, but she was warm and she was alive, and she gave the nape of his neck a tease when she noticed he had the makings of a straight flush.

* * *

><p>She was on top. She liked that best; she'd told him so.<p>

Her thighs pressed against his. Orange and yellow pulsed outside the window. Her hair flashed amber, auburn. Her skin shone golden. The sign continued on its axis and she was silhouetted: a blue-black negative to the fiery counterpart.

He ran his hands along her hips, the flesh soft and yielding. And unsettling. This was a woman who would keep him to herself.

He closed his eyes.

She groaned in his ear and pressed her palms into his chest.

It was a greedy sort of passion, like the girls who came to him after a show, the ones who wanted to put the screw to Good Times Kennedy.

But she was brittle. Not fragile: nothing weak, but brittle all the same. As if she would crack into a thousand jagged and terrible pieces. She was hard and cold and terrible.

She squeezed herself against him, bucked and gasped.

And when he opened his eyes, she was golden again.

* * *

><p>It was dark, but dawn wasn't far off. The bennies were long gone. The Nails were done. A new day waited, and he was perfectly suited with letting it pass-by while he drifted in and out of sleep.<p>

He traced her spine.

She squirmed.

"Ticklish?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

"Thanks again for rescuing me."

She smiled. "Chris is a killer, right?"

"That how he made his money?"

She laughed. "He wants you to think so... but... inheritance."

Leon smiled. "Inheritance?"

"Inheritance."

"I thought his big buddy was going to throttle me when I won that hand."

"Who, Enrico?"

"Yeah."

"Probably wanted to."

"He from Sicily?"

"Monaco, I think. He was in Monaco with him when I came to visit."

"How'd your brother meet up with a goon like that?"

Claire shrugged. "War."

"Met the hillbilly there too, huh?"

"Yeah, he's always got those guys coming around. Half the casino are friends from overseas."

"You'd figure he'd want to hire on some pros instead of a bunch of flyboys."

"Chris has a problem trusting people he doesn't know."

Leon chuckled. "He'd be in the majority then."

She nodded. "Really I can't believe he let you play with him. He must like you."

"He offered me a job."

Her forehead crinkled as she smiled. "That was nice of him. What'd you say?"

"I told him The Umbrella was the big boy on the block, and Wesker's got the fattest wallet."

"Wesker." She seemed to taste the name.

"You know him?"

She shook her head. "Never even been inside the Umbrella. What's he like? Chris is going nuts about him."

Leon did a decent job playing it cool, but he drummed his fingers on the mattress and leaned closer all the same.

"He's an odd duck. A real cool operator. He's getting under your brother's skin, huh?"

"You can say that."

"Why's that?"

She got to her elbows and glanced at him. "Why are you so curious?"

"I'm always curious." He was too tired to work, and getting sloppy as well, so he dropped the subject and ran his hands up to her shoulders.

She was splashed with freckles. A galaxy on her back.

Traffic hissed outside, but if he half-listened, it sounded like the rusting of leaves.

That shape between her shoulders: a triangle with a handle.

He traced it again. "Leo Minor."

"What?"

"Leo Minor."

"I heard you, what the Hell does it mean?"

"It's a constellation." The open window carried the smell of exhaust, but he sniffed for trees and lakewater regardless. "Four stars."

He traced the shape again.

She shivered.

"Leo Minor…" she said to herself, dreamy.

"The little lion."

"And I have it on my back?"

"That's right." He placed a finger on the farthest freckle. "This one is…Praecipua."

"Never heard of it."

"It's not easy to see."

"What are the other ones called?"

"Other what?"

"The other stars."

"I'm not sure if they're called anything."

"So only Prausip..._Precipitous_... has a name?"

"It's the brightest."

She laughed. "You got some cute lines, Kennedy."

He lowered himself next to her. The bed was a few months old, and it already had the swampy musk of sex and sweat. She was the first girl not to swoon for the constellation bit. He liked her better for it.

"How do you know so much about stars?" She reached for her cigarettes. "You an astronomer before you got famous?"

"No, I was a cop."

She laughed out her first lungful of smoke. "Officer Kennedy, The Singing Pig. I love it."

He forced a smile. "Officer Kennedy the second, actually."

"Ah, the family business. Why'd you quit?"

"They kicked me out."

She smiled and stroked his forehead. "You're better off here anyway. You're too handsome to be some ape walking a beat."

He ground his teeth.

The room was dark again, she drew on the cigarette, and her face glowed in the stoplight red. "So how'd you learn about the stars then?"

"My sister was into astronomy. She couldn't see much from our place, smoke and streetlights and all, so she'd make me wheel her to Lincoln Park. She's got this beast of a telescope, and I'd be breaking my back carrying-"

"Wheel her?"

"Yeah, polio. Been in a chair since she was six."

"Well, it's a tough old world." She drew away from him and dropped the smoke into an empty highball. "I'm thirsty. You want another?"

He watched her profile, tinged with flashing yellow. He recalled Lot's wife with her back turned to Sodom's destruction.

She glanced over her shoulder. She didn't turn into a pillar of salt. "Hey. Drink or what?"

He stretched, pleased with the night's outcome all the same. "Yeah."

After all, he had the chance to toast the dawn of Chris Redfield's downfall with the man's own sister. It felt so right, almost biblical.

"You know what? Make it a double, Buttercup."

The only catch was if Redfield went down, Claire would likely go too. Sure she had her brother's stink on her, but from what he could tell, she was a bystander in this. And he wasn't sure if he was willing to break her more than she already was.

"Here." She handed him his Nail. They clinked classes.

He had plenty time to decide either way.


	8. Catch a Falling Star

_For love may come and tap you on the shoulder _

_Some starless night_

_Just in case you feel you want to hold her_

_You'll have a pocket full of starlight..._

_Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket_

_Never let it fade away_

* * *

><p>Everything ached.<p>

She didn't want to open her eyes.

"_Fuck."_

The lone word scratched at her throat.

She made herself open her eyes.

The world was sideways. When she righted herself, her head ached. She felt half-empty, like the blood inside her was sloshing around.

Her left cheek felt red and sore from pressing into the carpet. Something soft slipped off of her back.

A fur coat.

It struck her that she had no idea where she was. She could smell sex and booze, even through a haze of cigarette smoke so strong that she had to clutch at her stomach. Slowly, she headed to the window. When she moved, she realized that one of the straps on her dress had torn, and she found herself too overwhelmed to even hold it up. Her underwear were gone, too, although one of her hose was left on, with a mighty rip in it.

Sunlight penetrated the curtain like the last ember of a cigarette. When she drew it back, she got a view of a parking lot, and desert beyond that.

She remembered _The Wizard of Oz, _a darkened theater, Judy Garland's feigned innocence: _We're not in Kansas anymore. _

She was on the outskirts of Vegas.

She couldn't tell whether it was night or day – whether the sun was setting or rising. The sunset-sunrise would've been breathtaking if she were less disturbed. It wasn't the first time she'd woken up someplace strange, but this was… different. She was at practically the edge of nowhere.

She scanned the room for some sign of something _hard _but didn't see a thing. Some empty wine bottles in the corner. Nice stuff, when she looked again. It was the kind of stuff her brother always wanted to order when he wanted to look like he was from someplace other than Hicksville, Indiana.

Claire looked back out the window and then shut the curtains. She realized she was still clutching the coat.

She could taste vomit in her mouth. Not pretty at all. She imagined that was when her caller left – when she started throwing her guts up.

_But they draped the coat over you. _She couldn't figure it out. _They draped the damn coat over you. _

She made herself breathe slowly. _Think._

She put the coat on the bed and examined it warily.

It shined even in the bad light, silk-cool to the eye. She brought her lips to it without thinking. It smelled like clean, with just a trace of some kind of musk.

For the first time, it occurred to her how much that kind of coat would cost. She'd owned furs before, sure. Chris was rolling in it, and she wasn't doing too shabby herself, even after booze costs. But she knew this fur's name. _Sable – _one expensive hell of a whore. She panicked.

For a moment, she wondered if it was Leon, but this wasn't his style. The cheap motel. The good wine. The damn _fur, _most of all_. _She knew well enough to know she wasn't worth a sable to him. Or to anyone, really.

She picked up one of the bottles and looked at it. A deep red Bordeaux (or so it said on the label), with an equally red smear on the bottleneck.

Claire knitted her eyebrows.

That wasn't _her _lip color.

When she looked even closer, she saw something inside. A piece of paper, rolled up.

It reminded Claire of all the childhood Coca-Cola bottles she'd stuffed pleas into. _Find me and take me out of here, _they said. Some were addressed to her brother. As a child, she'd never grasped that putting them in the pond meant they'd end up at the bottom.

Slowly, she tipped the bottle down and unrolled the note.

The hand was beautiful, but thin and businesslike.

_A toast to the best-laid plans. _

Claire couldn't remember for the life of her what had happened.

A part of her didn't want to.

Slowly, she rolled the note up and stuck it back in the bottle. She put the bottle back on the table. She stared at the room.

She stared at the ground – the brown shag carpet, carefully chosen to hide stains – and slowly, she leaned down to pick up her bra.

From the other hand, she took a swig of the red wine, only to remember that the bottle was empty.

* * *

><p>A quiet cab ride home and she was slinking through the lobby of the Star on one good heel. She tried to bury herself in the sable. That was a new one: trying to disappear wearing luxury fur.<p>

A hulking mass stood up from a small gaggle of glossy heads and female laughter.

She could pass by all but the best of them. When her brother caught up to her in the lobby, he took a double take.

"What the hell are you wearing?"

She tried to ignore him.

"Claire – what happened?"

She gave him her palm – _don't start_ - and limped along.

_She did not want to know how that happened. _

There was something almost threatening about the way he moved toward her, although she could see amusement glinting thin in his eyes. "Who-"

"Vegas."

_Vegas happened._

* * *

><p>"He's insolent."<p>

She tapped out the tip of her cigarette. It was practically burnt out by that point, but she milked it for all it was worth.

"He's talented," she replied. "And handsome."

"Have you ever heard him sing?"

"I've seen him in the glossies," she said. She wanted to cross her legs, but it was too hard to do in her dress, so she settled for a particularly insolent drag.

"_Ah. _And that gives you a qualified opinion on his singing, yes? Put that out. It's filthy."

"You don't smoke on the other side of the pond?"

"It's not the smoking that I refer to, dear, but that you're smoking little more than ashes. How like you."

"No idea what you mean."

"You wouldn't."

"You've met him?"

"_Heavens _no. Not personally."

"So you've only read the glossies, too."

He looked sharply at her, then checked the time.

His watch was gold. It matched the rims of his glasses, but it contrasted sharply with his hair. Silver. Second-place. That was Downing. That was why he managed the Sahara. It was the dump where Vegas spit out all the people too old or poor or sedate to be really exciting.

While Downing glanced down at his watch, she stubbed out her cigarette. She stared down at her heels until a yank on her ponytail shot her chin straight up.

He looked at her with something like amusement. "Wet?"

"What?"

"Your hair." He put his hands behind his back and began to pace. "You came to work with damp hair."

"Stop touching it. You'll ruin the curl."

"I suppose you didn't have time for proper care when you walked into your room at … oh, perhaps in the late afternoon? Judging by your damp hair alone, of course."

She met his eye, refused to drop it. "Maybe."

"A roll with a stranger?"

She stuck her jaw out.

"Don't tell me it was because I _yelled _at you. You know I never raise my voice."

"Why does it have to be about you?"

"Light me a cigarette, dear, will you?"

She got one out of her purse and lit it. She closed the case with a snap and handed it to him.

"So. I correct you and, like a child, you think it a scolding. Like a child, you cry in my lounge." He sighed, dramatic, and adjusted his glasses. Her cigarette smoked between his fingers, dangling useless like a prop. "Do you realize how your tempers must strike our clientele?"

She bit her tongue.

A million things to say. She chose one.

"I don't cry."

"Oh? You don't remember, then."

She stood up. "I'm going to go get a drink before I'm on."

He grabbed her and took her by the small of her back, kissing her hard until lipstick smeared his face.

When they parted, she gasped for air.

His voice was quiet, and laced with condescension.

"Stop lying to me."

"I'm not-"

"I asked you if you'd ever seen Kennedy sing."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I haven't."

"_Nonsense._ A little birdie told me-"

"Whatever they told you, it was wrong-"

"-_that you paid a visit to the Umbrella_."

A hush passed over the room.

"So?" She sounded more sure than she felt. "That's not a crime. What do you care where I spend my free time?"

His grip was still around her wrist. She tried to shake him off.

"I _care_ when I receive calls from him at my desk. I _care_ when he's snooping around here."

She snorted. It did nothing for his temper – his lip curled.

"Please. Leon Kennedy? Snooping around here and fucking _me_?"

"Oh, I was skeptical at first. But the receptionist _swore _that it was his voice – that she'd heard him at The Flamingo and had never forgotten. I was especially skeptical that he would call for our _very own _Claire Redfield, minor talent."

"You're crazy."

"But he has his reasons, I suppose. You're not to speak to him. He practically lives at The Umbrella; you think I don't know he's in Albert Wesker's pocket?"

She paused at that. "What do you mean? Who's that?" It sounded familiar, but only just.

He smiled the cruelest smile she'd seen in a long, long time.

He let go of her wrist.

"Nothing, dear. Nothing. Of course you haven't a clue. Stop sleeping with him. And stop going to The Umbrella. It's for your own good, really. A lay like Kennedy could never last for long, and who knows what nasty disease you might end up with?"

She stared him down. He waved her away, flashing the gold of his wedding ring.

"Just a little fatherly advice."

Claire wondered how many teeth she would knock out if she punched him in the mouth, and what those fake teeth would be made of.

Definitely not real ones. Gold? Silver? Something duller?

She settled for a nice, hard slap.

* * *

><p>Red said <em>stop<em>.

But Claire had gone in anyway.

She had clutched at her pocketbook like it was a weapon, until her knuckles were white with the effort. She had tried to keep her neck long and her chin up. _Just another casino. _

But it wasn't.

The Umbrella was something else entirely.

The place was so new and crowded. Even the people looked new, in their furs and jewels. _Tacky, _she thought, thinking of her bare neck. It suddenly felt vulnerable. Her chest tightened.

Some woman with a diamond the size of her fist around her neck – not possibly a real diamond, Claire thought – nudged her and nearly spilled her drink. She looked down her nose at Claire.

Claire gave her a middle finger when she wasn't looking. Then she set out to find a table.

Blackjack was bustling. Some man in a sharp suit was betting it all. She turned away to roulette, to poker, but couldn't get interested.

She lit herself a cigarette and tried to avoid the temptation to seek out Leon. His show started at ten. She'd checked.

It was as she clicked the box shut that she took a closer inventory of the crowd. Young, attractive people, older; wealthier men with younger women. Claire couldn't see the rough types that Chris had talked about. Just glimmering, everywhere. She felt them, though, under the surface, if only because she knew where to look.

One woman laughed. Her curls tossed up and her teeth flashed white. A man stood next to his wife, but touched the woman on the arm. The wife looked sourly at the young woman's necklace. _Everyone wants something, _Claire thought.

A statue on the railing moved. Claire examined it, only to realize it was a woman. A breathing, living woman.

The woman watched her in turn. Claire could picture her every tendon, smooth and finely crafted. She was pale, with beautiful bones, even from a distance. Oriental.

Claire wondered which man she was with, and how much he'd spent to catch her. Claire hadn't caught sight of any diamond collar, but there was something expensive-looking to her, all the same.

The woman grinned. It was like a cat's: no teeth, and impossible.

In the next instant, she disappeared.

* * *

><p>A chill crept in through the open window.<p>

In the huge bed, Chris played cards. He didn't look up at her when she walked in. Just started to shuffle again.

"You look lonely."

"Nah." He finished shuffling with a snap. "You want to see a trick?"

She walked over to him and stood, holding herself back. "No."

He had three cards in his lap: a queen and two kings. When he caught her looking, he shuffled them back into the deck.

"That doesn't look like a card game to me."

"It's Solitaire," he grunted.

"Uh-huh." She was sure there'd been a lot of "Solitaire" recently. With Jill gone so much. But it still struck her as odd. Chris was never alone this often. There was always some bimbo ready to take Jill's place in his bed.

Sometimes in Indiana they got tornados, always preceded by lots of wind and rain. That's when she'd first started smelling them - the storms. She knew them like she knew herself, and she knew herself like she knew Chris. This was the eye of it. If Chris was restless, the peace wouldn't last long.

Maybe Jill had a new man. Something serious, someone glamorous from The Umbrella.

For a moment Claire thought of Leon, of his smile and his script.

She had an overwhelming surge of sympathy for her brother. She sat down next to him in the unmade bed. It smelled entirely of him, almost pungently masculine. It didn't even hint at some other girl's perfume.

Even so, she knew better than to put her head on Jill's pillow. He hoarded little pieces of her. Possessive of his prizes. _He shouldn't bet them so willingly. _

She kicked her heels on the floor and curled up in the fetal position. She faced away from her brother, toward the window. She could see a half-moon, but no stars.

"You have a long day, baby sister?"

_Of course there aren't stars. There're too many fucking fake lights. _

His voice had just the slightest edge. Claire rolled over to glare at him.

"Don't even ask."

"Looks like you had some fun."

"_Don't_."

"So it's not who I think, huh?"

"Stop asking. You don't like him. I get it."

He looked pensive. He pulled out a card. An ace of clubs. "I don't know about that. You got cigarettes?"

"Not on me. In my purse. You wanna go get 'em?"

His expression went dark again.

"Not a lay, huh? Out all night taking another lost ankle-biter home?"

"Shut up. That was once. _One time."_

He laughed. It was more of a snort, like he didn't quite have the humor to spare on a full laugh.

"You sure like to bring that story up."

"Sorry. You're not really the motherly type."

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. It was an old habit. "I don't know why her parents brought her here - to Vegas. It's stupid. It's not a place for kids."

He didn't reply, so she went on.

"They were boxed. They couldn't remember her name. You remember I told you that?"

He kept shuffling the cards. They made a sort of cracking sound. Like popping knuckles.

"So who was it?"

She remembered the lipstick stain.

"No one."

He seemed satisfied with that answer. _No one. _Until Jill, it was always no one, no one. The old hymn.

"Hey. You know me. Serves Kennedy right."

She didn't want to talk about Leon right then, so she didn't reply.

"How's the job going?"

She stared into the dark corner of the room.

She thought of the way Downing's glasses had skittered across the floor, how red his cheek had been. Shame and anger and sting, all blazing on his skin.

_Dismissed._

"Fine," she finally said.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the patterns that the blinds cut of the moonlight, at the chinks of silver on the ceiling. They looked like shadow-bars.

No little lions, no brightest lights.

No stars here.


End file.
